


Epithalamium

by Northumbrian



Series: Nineteen Years and Beyond [37]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gen, HP: Epilogue Compliant, Humor, Novel, One Shot Collection, Post-Hogwarts, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Romantic Fluff, Wedding Fluff, Wedding Planning, Weddings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-02-10 13:47:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2027331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Northumbrian/pseuds/Northumbrian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Weddings don't just happen, you know! They have to be organised and planned. Every little detail must be checked. Nothing can be left to chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One-Hundred-and-Eleven Days: Plan, What Plan?

**One Hundred and Eleven Days: Plan, What Plan?**

‘GINNY!’ Ginny shouted her name at the top of her voice, and the windows in the kitchen of The Burrow rattled in protest.

Molly, her arms folded, shook her head firmly. Harry and Arthur, who stood near the bottom of the stairs, watched Ginny and her mother glare at each other. As the immovable object which was Molly faced the irresistible force of Ginny. The two men looked at each other questioningly, and silently agreed that neither of them would intervene.

‘No!’ Molly’s response was firm, and almost as loud as her daughter’s demand, ‘Ginevra Molly! That is your name, the name we gave you, so that _will_ be the name to go on the on the announcement, and on the invitations, too.’ Molly unfolded her arms, turned her palms outwards in a gesture of conciliation and, in a very small voice added, ‘Please?’

Ginny looked at Harry and at her father, but both men remained unspeaking and impassive. Ginny glared at her fiancé through narrowed eyes, demanding that he speak. He smiled at her and finally broke his silence.

‘Harry James Potter is going to marry Ginevra Molly Weasley,’ Harry told her. ‘Like it or not, they will announce your full name at the ceremony, mine too.’ He very wisely did not add, _‘The invitation is just a piece of card, it isn’t important enough to argue about.’_ Instead, he watched in silence and waited for Ginny to reach a decision. As he did so, he thought back to the night before last.

On Friday evening he’d taken his soon-to-be brothers-in-law out for a drink, to announce that, after their very long engagement, he and Ginny had finally set a date for their wedding. After several hours, and rather a lot of beer, each of the Weasley men had given him advice, some more useful than others.

Bill had said, “She’ll tell you that she values your opinion, that you’re _both_ getting married, but she’s a girl, she’ll have been dreaming about, and planning, her wedding since she was … I dunno … six … probably. Just nod your head and agree to everything. If she tries to force you to make a decision, do it immediately, and be definite. Then back down _instantly_ if it’s the wrong decision. You’ll know if you’ve said the wrong thing, believe me.”

Charlie hadn’t been any help. He’d simply said, “Don’t ask me, I think that you’re crazy to get married.’ Then he’d leaned across the table and added, “But if you ditch my sister now, Potter, I’ll kill you.”

Percy had said, “Believe it or not, there _is_ a difference between cream, parchment and plain white for the invitations and place settings and all that other stuff. And it is _very important_ to choose the right colour. All I can suggest is that you try to guess which one she prefers and choose that one. But _don’t_ ask her! Whatever you do, don’t ask her.”

George had slurred, “I’m with Charlie, there are so many pretty girls out there, why get tied down to only one?” Then he’d glared. “If I ever catch you looking at another girl, Potter, I’ll use you for _Sectumsempra_ practice, and it won’t be on your lug! Still, why get married … unless she’s pregnant … she’s not pregnant … is she? But … Ginny … I don’t want to hear about sex … why are you talking about sex?”

Ron had said, “Bill and Percy are right, mate. This is Ginny’s day. A lot of the time she pretends not to be girly, but deep down, she is. She knows what she wants, too, she always has. So just let her have it. It will save on the arguments, trust me. But watch out, she’s really sneaky, like Hermione. You can’t just agree with her immediately, she’ll get suspicious. You’ll be in real trouble if she suspects that you’re just nodding without thinking about it to keep her happy. Pretend to consider the options carefully, and watch her.

‘The wedding bit is easy; all you have to do is stand next to her and look happy. You should be able to manage that; you’ve had years of practice.” Ron had smiled when he’d said that, and then he’d turned serious.

“Just ignore dragon-boy and lugless. We all know that Charlie prefers dragons and George has “property of Angelina Johnson” tattooed all over his body, despite what he pretends. You _will_ be happy. I am. So, just go with the flow and try to look like you’re interested, even, no _especially_ when they start talking about flowers and boring stuff like that. And if Ginny and Mum argue; for Merlin’s sake don’t get involved, just leave them to it.”

Ginny finally came to a decision, interrupting Harry’s reverie.

‘All right, Mum,’ Ginny told her mother. ‘I’ll compromise. The invitations can use my full name, but the table setting will say Ginny Weasley!’

‘No it _definitely_ will not,’ her mother said smugly.

Ginny took a deep and angry breath; she looked ready to explode again.

‘It will say Ginny Potter.’ Molly smiled as she corrected her daughter. ‘We don’t sit down and eat until after you become Mrs Potter, remember.’

Ginny’s fury dissipated instantly and she beamed happily.

‘Ginny Potter,’ she said slowly, as she tried the name out. ‘Mrs Potter.’ She stretched out her hand, ‘Hello, Mrs Weasley, I’m Mrs Potter.’ Molly ignored the outstretched hand and pulled her daughter into a bone-crushing hug, sniffing loudly as she did so.

‘Mum,’ Ginny continued wistfully. ‘Does it take long to get used to having a new name?’

‘I really can’t remember,’ Molly smiled. ‘I’m used to it now. I should be, after all my wedding was thirty-three years ago.’ She lost herself in memories.

‘And a beautiful bride you were, too, Molly,’ Arthur Weasley told her fondly.

‘Mr and Mrs Arthur Weasley would like to invite “insert name here” to the Wedding of their daughter, Miss Ginevra Molly Weasley, to Mr Harry James Potter.’ Harry read the draft invitation aloud before Arthur and Molly lost themselves in reminiscences. ‘The wedding will take place at The Burrow, Ottery St. Catchpole on Saturday, 24th May, 2003, at 11:00 a.m. Are we agreed?’

‘Trying to back out?’ Ginny asked mischievously.

‘The wording, Ginny,’ Harry explained patiently. He strode across to his fiancée, pulled her into his arms, and lightly kissed her nose. ‘Do you agree to the wording? The invitations are only the beginning. We’ve got a lot more planning to do.’

‘Mrs Potter, Ginevra Molly Potter, Ginny Potter, Mrs Ginny Potter.’ Ginny continued to experiment with her name.

‘Ginny,’ Harry tried to bring her back to the discussions.

‘Yes, okay, that will be fine,’ said Ginny, waving her hand in a dismissive gesture.

Harry kissed her forehead and exchanged a smile of success with Molly.

‘So, seating arrangements come next,’ said Molly. ‘The top table first. Ron’s asked if he and Hermione can sit together.’

‘Well they can’t!’ Ginny said. ‘Hermione wouldn’t let Harry and me sit together at their wedding. Ron can have Luna instead.’

‘That should be fun.’ Harry grinned.

Ginny smiled and looked thoughtfully along her mother’s kitchen table. Imagining it as the top table, she pointed at the chairs as she went through the seating arrangements. Molly hastily scribbled the names down.

‘Bridesmaid Luna, Best Man Ron, Mum, you, me, Dad, Matron of Honour Hermione,’ Ginny chuckled. ‘Oh I’m so glad they got married first—I don’t ever want to be a Matron of Honour.’

‘Not even for Luna?’ Harry asked.

‘I’ll probably be a Grand-Matron of Honour by then, Harry,’ Ginny snorted. ‘She hasn’t had a boyfriend since Michael; she’s much too busy siphoning Wrackspurts or something. But don’t interrupt … “We’ve still got a lot more planning to do” … remember. So: the Matronly Hermione, then Page Boy Teddy, and finally Bridesmaid Victoire. I’m not sure about Victoire. By the time we get to the wedding breakfast I expect that she’ll want to be with “Maman”.’

‘She might be happy poking Teddy until he reacts,’ Harry observed. ‘She likes it when he turns his hair “vert”.’

‘ _Vert_? I thought “blur” was her favourite colour,’ observed Ginny.

‘Keep up, that was last month,’ said Harry, laughing. ‘But we’ve got three more months. She might be able to say turquoise by then.’

‘She hasn’t mastered blue or green, yet,’ Ginny observed.

‘She can say “bleu” and “vert” perfectly,’ said Harry. ‘I think Fleur is only speaking French to her, except when Bill’s around. Unfortunately, Teddy doesn’t speak French.’

‘They’re both rather young,’ Molly once again voiced her concerns.

‘Teddy will have had his fifth birthday by then, and Victoire will be just three,’ said Harry. ‘Hermione and Luna will look after them during the service, and afterward.’

‘Luna’s at the other end of the table,’ Ginny pointed out. ‘It will be up to Hermione.’

‘That’s good, she needs more contact with children,’ announced Molly contentedly.

Moving sideways to make certain that Molly couldn’t see what he was doing, Harry winked at Ginny. Molly had two grandchildren, Victoire and Dominique. Percy’s wife, Audrey, was due a month before the wedding. Molly, however, was obviously impatient for more. Ron and Hermione, although married for less than six months, were having some very heavy hints dropped on them. He and Ginny were anticipating similar pressure as soon as they married.

‘What about the other tables?’ Molly asked; her eyes still gleamed as she dreamt about the prospect of more grandchildren and she continued unthinkingly. ‘Do we mix up the families or…’ she stopped, embarrassed, ‘…sorry, dear.’

‘That’s all right, Molly,’ Harry told her. ‘I think that mixing family and friends will be the best idea. I shudder to think what might happen if you put all of the Harpies on one table, they need to be split up for everyone’s protection.’

‘We could put them all with Auntie Muriel, she’d enjoy that,’ suggested Arthur. He managed to keep his face straight for almost ten seconds after he’d made the suggestion. By which time Ginny had already collapsed in a chair, laughing hysterically.

‘They’re a nice, well behaved bunch of girls,’ fibbed Ginny eventually, ‘and they’ve already organised my hen night.’

‘I thought that Hermione was going to do that,’ said Harry worriedly.

‘Don’t you trust me?’ Ginny teased.

‘You, yes. The Harpies, no!’ Harry told her seriously. ‘Especially not Tegan.’

‘I’m inviting all of the DA girls, too, Harry, don’t worry,’ Ginny reassured him.

‘I can have a word with Susan and Lavender at work,’ Harry mused. ‘They’ll keep an eye on you all.’

‘Susan probably will! But you’ve no chance with Lavender. She’ll be out for a good time, you know that! But they’ll both be off duty,’ Ginny protested. ‘A hen night is not an Auror mission.’

‘I’m a Senior Auror,’ Harry reminded her. ‘And they both work for me. The Harpies _and_ the DA girls, how many is that?’

‘If everyone comes, there will be almost thirty of us. I’ve invited a few others.’

‘The female members of the England Quidditch Squad,’ Harry guessed.

‘Yes,’ confirmed Ginny. ‘And Fleur, who’s said yes, and Audrey, who’s said no. She probably wouldn’t have come anyway, but as she’s already got a Slughorn-sized belly she’s got a very good excuse. Demelza and Fenella are coming too.’

‘So, with Fenella that’s three members of the Auror Office. Is it true about Demelza?’

‘She’s tied in to her contract with the Tornadoes, Harry. I know that the Harpies management want her, and I saw today’s Daily Prophet, but I don’t think that she will be my team mate next year,’ said Ginny. ‘What about your stag night, Harry?’

‘Ron and Nev are going to organise it. I want something quiet, but I don’t suppose I’ll get it.’

‘You won’t, I guarantee it. But Ron will keep an eye on you, he always does. And my brothers will make sure that you don’t misbehave.’ Ginny grinned. ‘Who are you inviting?’

‘The DA blokes, Hagrid and most of the men in the Auror Office. Even Robards has said he’ll be there. If he is, that will put a real damper on the night. I’ve suggested that they invite Parvati’s husband, Parindra, too.’

‘Seating,’ Molly reminded them. ‘You have months to organise stag and hen parties.’

‘We could keep the immediate family together, and mix up the rest,’ suggested Ginny. ‘Bill, Fleur, Dominique, Charlie, Percy, Audrey, Weasley sprog three…’ Ginny was interrupted by her mother.

‘Do not call my third Grandchild “sprog three” Ginny! If she’s a girl, she will be Molly. If he’s a boy, he will be Arthur! Percy and Audrey have already decided on the names,’ said Molly proudly.

‘The creeps,’ Ginny whispered, rolling her eyes. ‘Okay, Mum. So, next to Arthurmolly we’ll have George, Angelina and the Dursleys, plus Dudley’s girlfriend. Is he still going out with Daisy?’

Harry nodded. ‘Yes. I phoned him last week to tell him the date and Daisy answered the phone. I think she’s moved in with him. That won’t please Aunt Petunia! But Vernon and Petunia probably won’t come, anyway.’

‘Mr and Mrs Vernon Dursley do not regret that they will be unable to attend,’ Ginny grumbled deeply. She tried to puff out her cheeks but, unusually for her, failed to capture the true nature of Harry’s uncle’s voice. ‘Vernon has a prior appointment washing his car and Petunia will be much too busy observing her neighbours’ lives to actually have a life of her own.’

‘Ginny,’ her mother scolded. ‘Why on earth must you be so rude about Harry’s only relatives?’

‘Because I’ve met them, Mum,’ said Ginny, grinning.

‘Anyway, that’s thirteen at a table. It won’t work,’ Molly announced, having quickly counted the names.

‘We can’t inflict Dursleys on anyone else,’ Harry said. ‘Perhaps we could give them a table to themselves ... in a separate tent ... a hundred miles away.’

‘Harry,’ Molly scolded gently. ‘Not you, too! I know that you don’t really mean that.’

‘And I know that you do,’ Ginny whispered in his ear.

‘We can put them with Bill and Charlie, and move Percy and George to another table,’ said Molly.

‘We could just put everyone’s names in a hat and draw them out randomly,’ suggested Harry, winking at Ginny.

Ginny’s eyes lit up, ‘That’s brilliant, Harry,’ she said, ‘that will get everyone talking.’

‘No,’ Molly pronounced. At the same moment her husband, a mischievous tinkle in his eyes said, ‘So long as you keep couples and families with small children together…’

Arthur and Molly stared at each other. Molly refolded her arms; Arthur merely raised an enquiring eyebrow.

‘Arthur,’ Molly began.

‘We could try it and see, Molly,’ Arthur suggested. ‘I’ll write down all the names and we can put them in a hat and draw them out randomly. We could always change them around later, if it doesn’t work.’

Molly looked sceptically at her husband.

‘I think that it’s a good idea,’ said Ginny. ‘We can’t have Harry’s family on one side and ours on the other, Mum. It would be one table for four Dursleys, and four tables of ten, at least, for the Weasleys and Prewetts. And why keep the friends together? We could try mixing things up, pulling names out of a hat. Keeping all of the Weasleys and Prewetts together is boring; there are simply too many of them.’

‘There will be one less Weasley when we get married,’ said Harry quietly. Ginny slipped her arms around her fiancé’s neck, stood on tiptoe and kissed him.


	2. One Hundred and Three Days: Press Here

**One Hundred and Three Days: Press Here**

Andorra Pugh’s office door burst open, and Ginny Weasley stormed into the room. Andorra looked up from the magazine article she was reading and tried to keep her face a mask of professional courtesy. As she watched her team’s most famous Chaser, the Harpies’ public relations officer realised that the storm that was Ginny was rapidly becoming a tempest.

Andorra experimented with a conciliatory smile. It had no effect, the clouds continued to gather on Ginny’s face. Soon, there would be thunder.

‘I see you got my message, Ginny,’ said Andorra politely. ‘Please sit down.’

‘Why?’ demanded Ginny.

‘Because we have a lot to discuss,’ Andorra told her.

‘We have _nothing_ to discuss, Andorra,’ said Ginny forcefully.

‘I disagree,’ said Andorra firmly. ‘Please, sit down, Ginny. The sooner we start, the sooner we’ll be finished.’

Andorra motioned towards the plush chair opposite her. She did her best to ignore the glare and remained silent until Ginny sat, folded her arms, and stared across the desk.

‘Why didn’t you tell us Ginny?’ Andorra asked.

‘Why should I?’ asked Ginny. ‘It has nothing to do with the club, or the press. Besides,’ Ginny waved her engagement ring under Andorra’s nose, ‘I’ve been wearing this for a year; anyone who didn’t realise that Harry and I were going to get married sometime must be extremely thick.’

Andorra lifted a copy of the previous day’s Sunday Prophet from the pile of papers on her desk and showed Ginny the headline.

_Wedding of the Year!  
Harry and Ginny finally set a Date!_

‘Nothing to do with the club?’ Andorra sighed. ‘I suppose that you Flooed into the stadium via the player’s fireplace.’

Ginny nodded.

‘I didn’t,’ Andorra told her. ‘I walked in through the staff entrance. We’re under siege, Ginny! I’ve been fielding enquiries from the Daily Prophet, Witch Weekly, Quidditch Today, the Wizarding Wireless Network, and goodness knows who else.’

As if to emphasise her point, an owl tapped on Andorra’s window. ‘Excuse me,’ Andorra grumbled. She opened the window and took the letter. She broke the seal and quickly glanced at the contents. It was more of the same, this time from the Harpies Fan-club Magazine.

‘This one’s from “Aello, Celaeno and Ocypete”, it’s the same as the others,’ said Andorra, waving the parchment in front of Ginny before placing it in her in tray. ‘They all want to know whether you’ll keep playing after you’re married, whether we’re going to renew your contract at the end of the season, and what our contingency plans are if you fall pregnant! And that’s just the start. Why didn’t you let us know you’d set a date, instead of simply telling the press?’

‘We did NOT, tell the press!’ Ginny snapped. ‘We were going to put a formal announcement in the Daily Prophet, but not until Easter, long after we’d sent out the invitations.’

With that revelation, Andorra finally realised why Ginny was so angry.

‘Ah,’ she said. ‘The Sunday Prophet implied that you’d leaked the story deliberately.’

‘I know! I read every one of the articles. The Prophet published first, and Harry is trying to find out who told them. The only people who knew were family, and some of our very close friends. If this is George’s idea of a joke then he will be in serious trouble! And if anyone else we know leaked it…’ Ginny’s eyes flamed angrily.

‘I’m sorry, Ginny. But we are where we are, and in the current situation we must issue a press release,’ said Andorra.

Ginny pursed her lips, and Andorra noticed the flicker of a mischievous smile. But before Ginny could say anything Andorra added, ‘Despite what you might think, Ginny, “Bugger off, it’s none of your damn business,” is _not_ a statement to the press.’

‘It is!’ said Ginny firmly, but the smile moved from a flicker to a broad grin as she spoke. ‘It’s simply not what they want to hear.’

As Ginny finally began to relax, Andorra began to plan.

‘I’m the Harpies’ Press Officer, Ginny. It’s my job to protect _every_ player from the press, and I’ll do everything I can to help you. But you can’t simply shout at the reporters, you need to keep them on your side. This is a good news story, isn’t it?’

Ginny smiled, ‘Not for some of Harry’s crazier fans, or some of mine, either.’

‘Some creeps and weirdos _will_ do stupid things, but most people will be happy for you, and that’s how you should play it. We’re a family club, so I’m going to advise the management to play this like a family event. But we need you to be on your best behaviour, Ginny, I don’t want another “Harpies Hellions” episode,’ said Andorra firmly.

‘That was years ago,’ said Ginny. ‘And I was under an enchantment.’

‘Yes, but the press still have the photographs, and they’re continuing to use them,’ said Andorra. ‘I’ve drafted a few questions. We can run through them now, and then I’ll draft a press release. You can check it over before I release it, okay?’

‘Later,’ said Ginny, glancing at the wall clock. ‘I need to get changed and get on the pitch. Training starts in five minutes.’

‘No, Ginny, we’ll do it now! You’re not flying until I have your answers. And you’re not leaving the training ground until you’ve agreed the press release,’ said Andorra firmly. ‘And it’s no good looking at me like that. It wasn’t my idea. This has come from Gwenog, and the management.’

Ginny frowned, but gave a reluctant grunt of acquiescence.

‘I’m sorry, Ginny, but now that the papers know something, they will want to know everything.’ Andorra pulled out a quill and prepared to take notes. ‘Have the Prophet got the date right?’

‘Yes.’

‘The place?’

‘Yes, that’s right, too. We’ll be married at The Burrow, but the Auror Office will be organising security, the press will be excluded, and any uninvited insects will be swatted.’

‘Uninvited insects?’ Andorra asked.

‘Private joke; it doesn’t matter, forget it.’

‘Fine,’ Andorra shrugged. She knew better than to press Ginny for an answer. ‘How many guests have you invited?’

‘About a hundred and twenty, but it’s restricted to family, friends, and work colleagues.’ Ginny grinned mischievously. ‘You’d better do a bloody good job with the press release, Andorra; otherwise I’ll cross your name off the list.’

‘I … I’ll do my best,’ Andorra spluttered, trying to regain her composure. ‘You’re inviting your teammates and colleagues?’

‘Yes,’

‘And Harry’s inviting his colleagues in the Auror Office?’

‘Yes, well, not all of them, obviously.’

‘Will the Minister of Magic be getting an invitation?’

‘Damn it, Andorra, you’re no better than the reporters, you’re trying to lead me on. I’m not going to name _anyone_ who’s being invited. The invitations will go out soon, next weekend, I hope. The press can have lots of fun finding out who’s coming after that.’

‘Okay,’ said Andorra. ‘Can you at least tell me who your bridesmaids will be?’

‘Yes, because they’ve already been asked. Hermione is Matron of Honour, Luna and my niece Victoire are bridesmaids and Harry’s godson, Teddy, will be pageboy. My brother Ron will be Harry’s best man. They’re all pretty obvious choices; the Prophet has correctly guessed the names, apart from Teddy and Victoire. That should be enough for you. Can I go now?’

‘No, not yet. Do you intend to continue to play for the Harpies after your wedding?’

‘Why shouldn’t I? There are plenty of married players in the league, and even more in long term relationships. I’m a professional Quidditch player. I bet no one is asking Harry if he’ll continue working as an Auror after we’re married, and his job is much more dangerous—and worse paid—than mine.’

‘Are you planning to start a family soon?’

‘That’s none of your business.’

‘You aren’t already pregnant, are you?’

‘Hell, no!’ Ginny stared into Andorra’s face. ‘Who’s spreading that rumour?’

‘Witch Weekly issued a “Wedding of the Year” special edition today.’ Andorra indicated the magazine she’d been reading when Ginny entered. ‘The “early visit from the stork” story is in the “Weather Vane” gossip column, along with a lot of old photographs of you and Harry, together and separate. You should take a look at it; they’ve included some “Hellions” photos, and several photographs of Harry with his arms around lots of other girls.’

‘The “other girls” will be Hermione, Luna, Susan, Bobbie, Lavender and Hannah, and possibly Parvati,’ snorted Ginny dismissively. ‘They’ll all be photos I’ve seen before.’

‘You’re right about most of the photos,’ said Andorra. ‘But there’s a picture of him with his arms around an absolutely gorgeous blonde, too. Do you know her?’ Andorra showed Ginny the photographs.

‘It’s only Gabrielle,’ said Ginny dismissively. She read the headline, “Harry’s girlfriends” and sighed. ‘Harry’s only real girlfriend isn’t even on those pictures.’

‘Who is Gabrielle, and who is Harry’s only real girlfriend?’ Andorra asked.

‘You don’t need to know. One day I will kill Romilda Vane. You have my permission to put _that_ in your press release.’

‘I won’t,’ Andorra dismissed Ginny’s empty threat. ‘Can I say that the Witch Weekly gossip column manages to get the names of the bride and groom correct, but nothing else, and that you have no immediate plans to start a family?’

‘I like that,’ Ginny chuckled. ‘You can even say that I hope to get a lot of baby-making practice with Harry first.’

‘Have you bought a dress? Will you be using Madam Malkin?’

‘I haven’t even started looking at dresses. The wedding is months away. I’ve no idea where I’ll be buying the damn thing. I’ll probably look in some Muggle shops. I liked Hermione’s dress.’

‘What about the honeymoon?’

‘Ask Harry, he’s in charge of that.’

‘So you don’t know where you’ll be going?’

‘I know that we’ll be in the Muggle world somewhere, but I’ve no idea where. Harry’s organising it.’

‘That’s romantic.’

‘I suppose it is, yes.’ The storm clouds had long since fled Ginny’s face and, as she thought about her fiancé, she radiated happiness. ‘Harry volunteered to do it. He wants to be involved, he wants to surprise me, and he knows more about Muggle holiday destinations than I do.’

‘You really won’t be going to a Wizarding location?’

‘We never do. We like to have a holiday where we aren’t pestered by the press and public. But do _not_ tell anyone that.’

‘There are four weeks between the end of the Quidditch season and the European Cup. Did you deliberately fix the wedding date to make sure that you’d be available to play for England over the Summer, if you’re re-selected?’

‘Yes.’

‘And Harry is okay with that?’

‘Of course he is. He’s a Quidditch fan, remember?’ Ginny grinned.

‘Are you going to change your name?’

‘Am I what?’ Ginny was startled by the question.

‘After you marry, will you be Mrs Ginny Potter,’ asked Andorra

‘Yes. What’s wrong with becoming Mrs Potter? It’s the name that will change, not me. There are lots of Weasleys and not many Potters. Why even ask?’

Andorra, who knew exactly why Gwenog Jones had wanted that particular question answered, struggled to think of an acceptable reason. Fortunately, she heard Harry Potter’s voice coming from Ginny’s shoulder bag.

‘Ginny?’ said Harry. Ginny reached into the bag and pulled out a mirror.

‘Hello, Harry,’ said Ginny, smiling.

‘Oh!’ Harry sounded startled and a little worried. ‘I didn’t really expect you to answer. I thought you’d be flying. Is everything okay?’

‘I’m with Andorra in the press office. The Harpies want to issue a statement about us. Can you get here for the end of the training session? If you can, we can both check the press release with her. Have you found out who leaked the story?’

‘Yes and yes,’ said Harry. ‘I’ve cancelled my meetings, there was nothing important, and taken the day off to sort this mess out. I can be in Holyhead within the hour. The printers, Bind Brothers, are responsible for the leak. One of the directors, Barrington Bind sent a copy of the draft invitation to the press. I’ve just been over to speak to them.’

From the tone of Harry’s voice, Andorra knew immediately that it hadn’t been a friendly chat.

‘I reminded the directors that the saleswitch I spoke to had promised to keep our order confidential. She assured me that she didn’t tell anyone. Bind Broothers have agreed to refund our payment, and they’re also going to issue an apology and make a donation to the Quidditch Players Benevolent Fund. Even so, I’ve cancelled the order and spoken to Deckle and Block. They have offered to print the cards for nothing, and they guarantee that they’ll keep the list of guests secret.’

‘Free?’ Ginny asked.

‘They want permission to call the card design we’ve chosen the “Harry and Ginny” range. I haven’t placed the order with them, because I wanted to talk to you about it first. Will I have to sneak into the ground to watch you practice?’

‘Definitely not, Mr Potter,’ called Andorra quickly. ‘I’ll arrange for you to use the Manager’s personal Floo connection.’

‘Thanks, Andorra,’ Harry called. ‘Get flying Ginny, you need the practice. You only scored eight goals last week.’

‘In an away game, against the best Keeper in the League,’ protested Ginny. She smiled at his teasing. ‘I’ll see you soon, Harry, bye.’

‘See you soon, Ginny,’

Ginny broke the connection and looked hopefully at Andorra, who indicated that she could leave. The second Ginny left, Andorra began to organise.

* * *

_Holyhead Harpies would like to join the rest of the Wizarding world in congratulating our England International Chaser Ginny Weasley in her forthcoming marriage to Senior Auror Harry Potter._

_Both Harry and Ginny have expressed their sadness at the way the news of their wedding date was leaked to the press. “We have sacked the people responsible,” Harry told us. “We both lead busy lives and do not seek publicity. We wanted a quiet family wedding and we hope that people will respect our privacy.”_

_In an exclusive interview with Harpies Press Officer Andorra Pugh, the happy couple revealed that, as from the end of this season, Ginny Weasley will no longer be playing for the Holyhead Harpies._

_Don’t worry, fans, your favourite Chaser is simply teasing you. Ginny will still be here, but next season you’ll need to look for a new name: Ginny Potter. In her own words: “It’s the name that will change, not me”._

_The timing of the wedding means that, if England choose to reselect our Chaser, then Ginny Potter’s first ever Quidditch game will be for England, not the Harpies._

Andorra watched anxiously as Harry continued to read the article. It was vague and full of good wishes, with a couple of snippets of news (like the fact that Harry was organising the honeymoon).

‘It looks okay to me, Andorra,’ said Harry. ‘But Ginny might want to make a few changes. Can we go out into the stands now? I like to watch Ginny fly.’

‘Of course,’ Andorra smiled. ‘Bernice Baker—the club’s official photographer—is here, Harry. Is it okay if she takes a few photographs of you and Ginny? We’ll use them for our press release and also for next week’s match programme. You can have final approval of any photos we use, of course.’

‘I suppose so,’ Harry shrugged. He was already on his feet and heading for the Director’s box. Andorra watched him leave. He was still in his Auror uniform. This would be perfect, provided the photographer did her job properly.

As they sat in the box, Andorra, unlike Harry, didn’t watch the Harpies training. Instead she watched the photographer snapping Ginny flying, and Harry watching. When Gwenog finally blew the whistle on the practice session, Harry stood and waved. Ginny flew towards him. The photographer, Bernice Baker gave Andorra a happy smile, and an urgent grimace. Suddenly realising that she’d be in the shot, Andorra dived behind the chairs and lay on the floor. Above her, Harry and Ginny kissed, and the camera clicked.

* * *

‘Well done, Bernice, and you too, Andorra, for spotting the opportunity,’ said Harpies Manager Gwenog Jones the following day. She waved the photograph triumphantly. It showed Ginny, in her Harpies gear, kissing Harry, who was in his Auror uniform.

‘This photograph is already everywhere, in every newspaper and magazine. It’s the most published new photo of the happy couple, and the bride-to-be is wearing her Harpies kit. It’s brilliant! I don’t know how you persuaded them to let us use it, Andorra, but it’s wonderful publicity for the club. I reckon we can expect a capacity crowd at the game on Saturday. Make sure that we’ve got plenty of Ginny Weasley posters, Andorra, and be sure to talk to marketing. Tell them to source some new Harpies shirts with the name “Potter” on the back. I don’t care how much they cost; we need them before Saturday’s game. And tell them to keep the “Weasley” shirts on the shelves, too. I’m certain that a lot of the fans will buy both.’ Gwenog smiled contentedly.


	3. Ninety Eight Days: A Dress

**Ninety Eight Days: A Dress**

Jocasta Robertson prided herself in being able to accurately assess her customers. She tilted her head backward in order to look down her nose at her new assistant, Sandra Simpson, as she began her well-rehearsed "new staff" lecture.

‘The instant they walk through the door, I can tell,’ she said confidently. ‘I can tell their likely price range, the style they will like, and which brochures they will want to look at. It takes a great deal of practice, of course.’

Sandra nodded in agreement, but there was something in the girl’s eyes which made it apparent to Jocasta that the girl did not entirely believe her. Jocasta was still uncertain about her new member of staff. Sandra’s references were good and she dressed well enough, especially given her size. She was a large and rather plain-featured girl, she looked smart and she projected an air of efficiency. But looking efficient was not the same as being efficient and, in that respect, Sandra was an unknown quantity.

Sandra! What a dreadful name, so common! The girl didn’t really fit in with the image Jocasta wanted to project. She wondered whether she’d be able to persuade Sandra to use a different name in the shop. Juliet, or possibly Tamsin, would be so much better. Unfortunately Sandra did not look like a Juliet or a Tamsin, she looked like a Sandra.

Jocasta was contemplating broaching the subject of names when the familiar tinkling of the bell, which always accompanied the door being opened, brought her mind back to more important matters. She was immediately alert, they had customers!

Sandra looked expectantly at Jocasta, and the middle-aged proprietor of “Jocasta’s Bridal Wear, Exeter” realised that her new assistant was now expecting her to prove her expertise.

Jocasta smiled at the three young women who had entered her shop. Her hopes soared when she saw the first girl, and then plummeted when she saw the other two.

This would be difficult. Usually, there was some clue, but Jocasta could see nothing which could possibly bind these three young women together. They were attractive enough in their own very distinctive ways—even the blonde—but they did not appear to be related. They didn’t appear to have anything else in common either.

First through the door had been a young woman of average height. Jocasta had smiled smugly at Sandra, assuming that her job would be easy.

The first girl was slim and attractive, although her wild brown hair was untamed and possibly untameable. She wore a smart skirt and jacket combination; they were clothes of good quality and Jocasta was immediately certain that she was dealing with a young, professional woman in a well-paid job. However, when she checked the woman’s left hand and saw that she already wore a wedding ring, Jocasta realised to her dismay that this was not the bride.

Behind the brown-haired woman came the blonde. The blonde was gawping in astonishment at the expensive satin mermaid dress which took pride of place in front of the shop door. In fact, Jocasta realised, she wasn’t actually staring at the dress, but at the floodlights surrounding it. It was almost as though the blonde had never seen a floodlit display.

The blonde was in hobnail boots, a long flower print dress of an extremely unfashionable style, a man’s dinner jacket with the sleeves rolled up, and a purple and yellow patterned woolly hat with ear-flaps. She was a mess! At best she was charity-shop-chic! The girl wore no engagement ring, but given her attire, that meant nothing. Could this be the bride? Realising that the blonde had turned her attention from the display and was now staring at her with wild and wide grey eyes, Jocasta suppressed a shudder of despair. She masked her despondency with her most professional smile and looked past the blonde to the third girl.

The third girl was a redhead. Redheads were _always_ difficult. They were difficult to advise, because they usually knew exactly what they wanted and often refused to acknowledge that they may, just possibly, be wrong. They were doubly difficult, because making certain that the bridesmaids dresses did not clash with the hair could be something of a problem, and this particular redhead’s hair was almost fiery in colour.

The redhead was petite and curvy; she wore tight jeans, black boots and a leather motorcycle jacket over a short green t-shirt which revealed a taut midriff. She strolled into the shop with a confident grace. Her clothing, however, gave nothing away, it was impossible to guess either her occupation, or how much she earned. Was she rich and eccentric, or simply a biker-girl? There were no visible tattoos, and her belly-button wasn’t pierced, so Jocasta fervently hoped for the former.

A biker-girl, a crazy hippie and a business-woman! It didn’t make sense.

As she moved alongside her friends, the red-headed woman finally pulled her left hand from the pocket of her leather jacket. There it was! The engagement ring was interwoven wires of white gold and the impressively large diamond was flanked by two emeralds. There was no doubt that the ring was very expensive. Jocasta’s worries began to evaporate away. Whether this woman had money or not was suddenly immaterial. Even if she did not, then her future husband was obviously wealthy. Jocasta strode forward with a smile and greeted her customers.

‘Welcome to Jocasta’s,’ she said to the redhead, ‘I do hope that we will be able to find something for you, Miss?’

‘Weasley. Ginny Weasley,’ Ginny said.

‘Virginia is such a beautiful name,’ said Jocasta, smiling politely.

‘It might be, but my name’s not Virginia, it’s Ginny,’ said Ginny forcefully.

Jocasta determinedly kept the polite and professional smile on her face, a task made more difficult by the fact that, behind her, Sandra had failed to disguise her snort of laughter as a cough.

‘Are these your bridesmaids, Ginny?’ she asked, determinedly ignoring her assistant. She would deal with Sandra later.

‘Yes. Hermione,’ said Ginny, nodding at the brown-haired young woman. ‘And Luna,’ she indicated the blonde.

_Luna!_ Jocasta thought. _Oh dear, hippie parents too! She’s probably never been dressed any other way, poor thing._

‘Do you really only sell wedding dresses in this shop?’ Luna asked. ‘And there seem to be so many of them, too. Are there really so many Mu-people wanting to get married?’

‘Luna,’ said Ginny warningly.

‘I want to know, Ginny, that’s why I’m asking. Knowledge is important, isn’t it Hermione?’ said Luna.

‘Yes, Luna,’ Hermione sighed. ‘But you can ask _us_ later. This is the first shop we’ve tried; we might be spending days, or even weeks, doing this. You’ll soon learn what these places are like. They are all the same!’

Luna appeared to be prepared to argue. Jocasta looked worriedly between Hermione and Luna. If they began to argue, Jocasta realised, she could lose any chance of a sale. Why did brides choose bridesmaids who were so different? Finding a bridesmaids dress which would suit both girls, and which both would like, would not be easy.

‘I do hope, ladies, that you’ll find Jocasta’s Bridal Wear a little different. We pride ourselves on the care and attention we give our customers. I am certain that we’ll be able to find something for you here. When is the wedding; may I ask? How long do we have to find your perfect dress?’ Jocasta spoke rapidly and managed to divert Luna from continuing her disagreement.

‘In three months. The twenty-fourth of May,’ Ginny announced. She smiled radiantly as she spoke. It was obvious that she was looking forward to it.

‘How wonderful, and do you have any ideas what you would like, Ginny?’ she asked.

‘Something Harry will want to tear off the moment he sees me,’ said Ginny. She spoke with absolute certainty and with a twinkle of mischief in her eyes.

Jocasta heard Sandra stifle another giggle and turned to admonish her new assistant.

‘But also, something which Dad will think is perfectly suitable for his only daughter,’ she added.

‘How difficult can that be?’ asked Hermione sarcastically.

‘Not very,’ said Luna. ‘Harry thinks that Ginny is beautiful whatever she’s wearing, and he doesn’t like her to be too … obvious.’

‘Oh, I don’t know about that, Luna. He really liked the little black dress I wore at last year’s Harpies’ Christmas Party, and _that_ certainly didn’t cover much,’ said Ginny. She winked at her friends. ‘But he liked the bridesmaid’s dress I wore at your wedding too, Hermione.’ Ginny lost herself in thought for a moment.

Jocasta looked enquiringly at the two young women. Ginny deferred to Hermione.

‘It was a strapless ball gown,’ Hermione supplied.

This way, ladies,’ said Jocasta, she turned to lead the three young women to a display of ball gowns, but Ginny remained rooted to the spot, refusing to follow.

‘I _did_ like the bridesmaid’s dress,’ said Ginny firmly, crossing her arms and sounding rather irritated. ‘But I’m not going to have anyone say I copied from you, Hermione. I want something similar, but which looks completely different.’

‘What about that?’ Luna asked, pointing to the display dress. ‘I think that you would suit something like that, Ginny.’

Jocasta’s heart skipped a beat. The embroidered satin mermaid dress was one of the most expensive items in the shop. Ginny strolled over and examined the dress. It was figure-hugging from cleavage to knees before finally flaring out into a long train.

‘No,’ said Ginny with certainty. She stood on tiptoe and teetered forwards, keeping her knees clamped tightly together. ‘How could anyone possibly walk while wearing something like that? I don’t want to fall arse over tit when I’m walking up the aisle.’

‘Ginny! Language,’ scolded Hermione.

‘Interesting turn of phrase,’ said Luna thoughtfully.

‘It’s what my Uncle Bilius used to say,’ said Ginny. ‘When people complained he simply said: we’ve all got ar…’

‘It’s actually quite easy to walk in, Ginny,’ Sandra stepped forwards and interrupted the redhead. Jocasta failed to stare her new assistant into silence. ‘You just need to swing your hips a bit. You don’t stride, you sashay.’ Sandra demonstrated as she moved, making a surprisingly good job of it. ‘In my opinion, you need a decent figure to be able to look good in this dress. Looking at you, I think that you would look absolutely wonderful in it.’

‘You _are_ very good at swinging your hips, Ginny,’ observed Luna. ‘And Harry likes to see you do it, too. I’ve watched him watching you when you do. But you’re usually in too much of a hurry to bother.’

Ginny looked at the dress closely and turned to face Sandra. ‘I don’t like the sleeves,’ she announced. ‘And I don’t care what you say. I still don’t think that I could walk in it.’

‘We have dozens of dresses on display,’ said Jocasta. ‘If you don’t like that one, we can certainly look at something else. After all, no one buys the first dress they see.’

‘True,’ Hermione spoke with feeling.

‘Why not?’ Luna asked.

Jocasta smiled sweetly at the blonde. Luna was obviously going to question everything. This was going to be very difficult.

‘That’s a very good question, Luna,’ said Sandra, ignoring Jocasta’s glare. ‘If the first thing you see is right, why not buy it?’

‘Because it isn’t the right dress!’ said Ginny.

‘Your friend Luna thinks that it would suit you, and I agree,’ said Sandra. ‘You have the curves to carry it off, that’s obvious from the clothes you’re wearing. The display dress flares from the knees, but if you really want to march down the aisle, there’s a version which flares from mid-thigh. The dress comes in a strapless version too, with a sweetheart neckline.’

Jocasta looked at Sandra in surprise.

‘It’s in the catalogue,’ Sandra spoke to Ginny but it was obvious that her words were for Jocasta’s benefit. ‘I’m new, so I’ve been familiarising myself with our stock. Let me show you.’

‘I don’t know…’ Ginny began hesitantly.

‘The only one we have in stock is the display dress. It’s a very expensive dress, and we can’t keep every size. I think that it will fit you, although we’ll need to pin up the hem,’ said Sandra. ‘It can’t hurt to try, can it?’

Jocasta found herself in a quandary. It had taken her two days to set up that display, but if they could sell it, and two matching bridesmaids dresses, then it would be worth it.

‘You’ve got to start somewhere,’ Sandra suggested. She opened the display cabinet.

* * *

‘One coffee, Hermione, and one Camomile tea, Luna,’ said Jocasta.

As she handed the drinks to the two bridesmaids, Jocasta brooded over the pig-headedness of redheads. This was her shop, she was in charge, but when she’d tried to escort Ginny into the changing rooms the bride-to-be had said “It was her idea, she can help me into this damn thing, and if it’s no good, I’m not even coming out. You’re not going to see me in something I don’t like.”

Ginny had firmly indicated that Sandra, and only Sandra, would be the one to help. Jocasta had found herself relegated to waiting on the bridesmaids while Sandra fitted the dress, pinned up the hem, and scuttled back and forth collecting a pair of high heels, and, for some reason, a length of bright green silk.

‘They’re taking their time,’ observed Hermione.

‘Perhaps I should go and see…’ began Jocasta.

‘Ginny said no one should go in,’ sang Luna happily. ‘It’s really best not to upset her, Jocasta. We’ll just wait.’

Jocasta smiled sweetly and contented herself with trying to overhear what was going on in the changing room.

Eventually, Sandra emerged. ‘Please stand for the bride,’ she said, putting on a mock falsetto as Ginny floated elegantly through the curtains.

‘You look wonderful, Ginny,’ said Luna.

‘You do,’ agreed Hermione, rather reluctantly.

Jocasta was speechless. The transformation from leather-jacketed, jeans-wearing biker girl to beautiful bride was remarkable. Ginny was wearing a solid silver neck ring containing four emeralds. Her long hair had been tied up into an ornate pile using the green ribbon.

‘I’ve had to pin the waist, and take four inches off the hem, but we can take measurements, and make the alterations. We can order ribbon in a different shade of green, too, an emerald, to match your engagement ring and the torc you’re wearing. Provided that this is the dress you want, Ginny.’

It is,’ said Ginny firmly. ‘And identical bridesmaids dresses in emerald green.’

Jocasta’s initial instinct, to suggest that Ginny try more than one dress, was rapidly silenced as she totted up the profit from one very quick sale.

‘You do look wonderful, Ginny,’ said Jocasta, smiling happily.

Ginny ignored Jocasta and turned to talk to Sandra. ‘It’s surprisingly comfortable, and easy to walk in, too,’ Ginny admitted. ‘You’re right, Sandra, walking is easy; all I need to do is swing my hips.’ She demonstrated, talking four sultry steps before twirling around.

Jocasta caught sight of a large bruise behind Ginny’s shoulder and gasped.

‘The hockey season finishes soon,’ Sandra explained to her boss. ‘And anyway, you should see the other girl. First fitting in two weeks, Ginny?’ She turned to Hermione and Luna. ‘Now, if I can just take some measurements.’

‘But... No one buys the first dress they try on, Ginny,’ Hermione protested.

‘Why not?’ chorused Ginny and Luna.


	4. Eighty Seven Days: Sweeping Misconceptions

**Eighty Seven Days: Sweeping Misconceptions**

The familiar kitchen of Grimmauld Place was full of the mouth watering smells of Kreacher’s cooking when Ginny stepped out from the flaring green flames.

Harry was sitting alongside the long scrubbed oak table; he was wearing a pair of comfortably shabby black jeans, a little frayed at the cuffs from years of wear, and her favourite t-shirt. The Holyhead Harpies logo on the faded green t-shirt was now washed out to near invisibility and the garment itself was beginning to split at the seam under his left armpit. The split had been significantly increased in size when he’d last worn it. That had been entirely his fault. He’d teased her, so she’d tickled him through it and he’d pulled away with her finger still inside. He hadn’t repaired it, she noticed, but she hadn’t expected him too; he was hopeless at most household spells.

Harry’s feet were bare and his curled toes were gripping the edge of one of the many kitchen chairs. He was rocking back on the two rear legs of the chair on which he sat, pushing himself ito a precarious point of balance and holding himself mere arc-minutes away from tipping.

Ginny smiled a greeting at her fiancé but got absolutely no response. She looked at him curiously. He had not looked up when she’d arrived; he had not acknowledged her at all. Harry was ignoring her. It would be deliberate; there was no doubt that he was teasing her. Nevertheless, it was something which could never be tolerated.

There was a large pile of newspapers and magazines on the table beside Harry, and he was busily reading ... she stopped in her tracks and looked again to make certain that her eyes weren’t deceiving her … he was busy reading _“Rogue”_ the most trendy of the current crop of witch’s fashion magazines, a magazine whose tagline was “Muggle fashions for with-it witches”. Her curiosity was piqued. It was a magazine he would never ever read, unless he was forced to.

Ginny dropped her Harpies kit bag on the floor. The padded thud wasn’t loud, but it was enough to attract his attention, to force him to react to her presence. He looked over the top of the magazine, pretended to be startled by her arrival, and grinned at her.

‘Hi, Ginny,’ he said, his eyes twinkling.

‘Looking at the underwear adverts, Potter?’ she asked playfully.

‘Should I be? Do you want me to make a few suggestions about what you should wear under your wedding dress? I’ve got a few ideas already, none of them substantial. Would you like to hear them?’ he asked.

He lowered the magazine slightly, his face full of mischief. ‘You will have to wait. I’d be grateful if you didn’t interrupt me for a few minutes. I’m reading a very interesting factual piece. It’s all about…’ he glanced down at the page, ‘the forthcoming wedding of the Harpies famously feisty flame-haired temptress to the nation’s most eligible bachelor.’ He looked into her eyes and asked, ‘I wonder why they stopped the alliteration at flame-haired? Couldn’t they think of another “F” word or two … flouncing floozy, for example.’

_So, he’s in one of_ those _moods, is he_ she thought. She watched him mentally prepare for her riposte.

‘Those words are taken, Harry, didn’t you know? Lavender and Romilda are fighting for exclusive rights to the flouncing floozy headline,’ Ginny told him archly. ‘So the real issue is the typo.’

‘Typo?’ he asked.

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ she asked. ‘You are _not_ eligible, they must have meant something else, negligible bachelor, probably.’ She dismissively flicked her hand at him.

Harry burst out laughing. Throwing down the magazine he allowed his chair to topple forward onto all four legs. When it landed, he sprang to his feet. Ginny simply waited as he took two strides, pulled her into his arms and gave her a familiar, but no less pleasurable, welcoming kiss.

‘Hello, flame-haired temptress,’ he said. ‘How was training?’

‘Training was straining, and draining, and it was raining,’ she replied, making him chuckle. ‘It’s good to be home after a rotten day. But, I’ll tell you all about it later, Harry. You’re obviously busy, and I want to know what’s going on here.’ She kissed him again, this time more slowly, savouring the moment.

‘And hello to you, too, ineligible negligible bachelor,’ she said. She grinned at his puzzled expression. ‘Let’s be honest, Harry. You haven’t been “eligible” since the battle and neither have I, despite the rumours and various futile attempts to magically force the contrary on us.’

Harry smiled as he finally understood. ‘Did you know that you are a fashion icon, too?’ he asked playfully. He waved towards the magazine he’d just discarded, and took a couple of steps back to take a good look at her.

‘Of course,’ Ginny agreed. ‘I always look my best, even when forced to wear the only dry clothes left in my locker.’

She, too, stepped back. Holding her arms out to her sides, she twirled.

‘Miss Weasley is wearing: a pair of scuffed old trainers; joggers with grass stains on the knee, and; the first ever official Holyhead Harpies sweatshirt she was issued with, which—due to an administrative error when she first started at the club—is, in fact, two sizes too big for her.’ When Ginny began her commentary she had raised her voice to an unnatural pitch, she was speaking in the excited whisper of the Wizarding Wireless Network’s most famous fashion guru. Bringing the backs of her hands together under her chin, fingers pointing downwards, she swept them down and apart in a gesture intended to show off her attire.

‘The washed out blandness of the old Harpies-green training outfit has been accessorised by a large tea-stain and some brown sauce smudges on the chest, courtesy of a clumsy reserve Beater, whose name I will not reveal to spare Miss Cardie’s blushes … oops, sorry…’ She smiled as Harry laughed and continued. ‘The additions were made during the lunchtime tactics discussion. In addition, the right sleeve is marked with … what on earth _is_ that?’ Ginny stopped and cautiously sniffed her cuff. ‘Ah, it’s broom wax of a particularly unpleasant, if not to say excretiating colour…’

‘Don’t you mean excruciating?’ Harry asked, still smiling. Ginny stood on her tiptoes and attempted to walk like a fashion model on a catwalk.

‘It looks very much to me like something has excreted on my sleeve, Harry,’ she said, grinning. Returning to her fashion critic’s voice, she continued. ‘The nasty brown stain does, however, serve a useful purpose. Rogue readers may be unaware of the remarkable aphrodisiac effects the smell of broom wax has on a certain ineligible negligible bachelor.’

‘It’s not exactly broom polish, just brooms and you,’ Harry corrected her.

Ginny smiled and dropped from her tiptoed stance. Striding forwards she perched on the edge of the table, left leg on the floor and right leg swinging idly. She swept an enquiring arm over the pile of newspapers and magazines.

‘What on earth is all this stuff?’ she asked.

‘It’s the product of an Auror Office sweepstake, Ginny. It was Lavender’s idea,’ Harry said. He looked despairingly at the periodicals. ‘It cost everyone a Galleon to enter, and looking at all this lot, I think everyone has. Half of the money will go to the winner, the other half to the Auror Office Benevolent Fund. Everyone who entered had to bring in a newspaper or magazine containing an article about us. Lavender collected them, collated them, rejected any duplicates, and made anyone who tried to submit an already submitted magazine, find something else. She also took note of who entered each of them.’

His eyes met hers, and she noticed the slightly desperate look on his face. ‘It’s now my job to judge them. The one containing the least accurate article about us will win the money. When I said yes to Lavender I didn’t think that there would be many entries, and that judging would be easy. But every single one of these contains lots of elementary mistakes.’

‘That really shouldn’t surprise you,’ Ginny told him. She smiled in understanding. Once Harry agreed to do something, he’d do it, and he’d try to do it to the best of his ability.

‘True, but look at this lot!’ He looked helplessly at the cluttered table. ‘Every one of them is full of mistakes, and there are dozens of them! A lot of it is simply sloppy work; _Quidditch Today_ even managed to get our birth years mixed up. It’s going to be difficult to decide on a winner. Do I choose the most mistakes, or the biggest mistakes?’ Harry frowned in resignation. ‘I’m beginning to feel a bit guilty, too,’ he admitted. ‘It’s supposed to be anonymous. Lavender hasn’t told me who submitted which magazines, but…’

‘But you’re not stupid, Harry. You know the people you work with,’ she said. She rifled through the magazines, reading out some of the titles. ‘ _Cheat: scorching celebrity news!_ or, as Lavender calls it, the only news worth reading,’ she said, glancing at the cover. There were two separate cover photographs, and they had been arranged so that the photograph of her (drunk and in a revealing top) faced a photograph of an angrily shouting Harry, who was embracing a weeping Hermione. Even the cover photographs told a lie.

Harry grumbled, and Ginny wondered what was written inside the notorious gossip-magazine, but moved on to some of the others. ‘ _Advances in Magical Law Enforcement_ , that can only be Susan’s. _Puddlemere Forever_ is probably Bobbie’s. _Knitting Today_ must be Phillipa’s, and _Essential Arithmancy_ , can only belong to Terry, because no one else in your office understands that stuff.’

Curious, Ginny picked up the penultimate magazine she’d mentioned and looked at the cover. ‘Wow, the matching sweaters Mum gave us two Christmases ago have made it onto the cover of _Knitting Today_ , she _will_ be pleased! But…’ She stopped and stared at the other magazines. ‘Harry, we’re on the cover of _all_ of these, even _Essential Arithmancy_! They’re using the photo of us that the Harpies released a couple of weeks ago. Why in Merlin’s name are we on the cover of _Essential Arithmancy_?’

‘Magazines with our photo on the cover sell better, apparently,’ he replied. ‘There are a couple of articles about us inside, too. One is about the statistically significant effects of Potter/Weasley cover photos to sales, and the other is about how your goal scoring patterns correlate to my case closure rate. The authors seem to be trying to prove cause and effect, and I suspect that Terry thinks they are wrong. Unfortunately, I have no idea how to start on that article; I’m going to have to ask Hermione to translate it for me. I got lost in the squiggles long before the first backwards 3,’ he admitted ruefully.

‘Backwards 3?’ Ginny asked.

Harry opened the magazine and pointed to an “ε” symbol. ‘It’s apparently something called an epsilon and according to the notes it represents an extremely small, but positive quantity. Perhaps it means you!’

‘Cheek,’ said Ginny, playfully slapping his arm. ‘I’m not extremely small; I’m almost five foot two!’ As she spoke, Ginny glanced past Harry and noticed that Kreacher had turned away from the stove. The elderly house elf’s arms were folded and he was staring at the cluttered kitchen table.

‘What’s for dinner, Kreacher?’ Ginny asked.

‘Kreacher has prepared lamb shanks in a rosemary, mint and red wine sauce, mistress,’ the house elf said, ‘with crushed potatoes, and an assortment of vegetables.’

‘And it was ready for my arrival, thank you,’ said Ginny. ‘But Harry has cluttered the table with his silly magazines and you don’t want to interrupt us, even though we’re only chatting, and teasing each other. Sorry! I’ll clear the table and Harry will set it.’

‘Mistress,’ Kreacher protested in alarm. ‘There is no need…’

‘It’s been a cold, wet training session and I’m starving, Kreacher,’ said Ginny firmly. ‘You concentrate on serving the meal, and we’ll do the rest.’

She waved her wand, and the magazines and newspapers floated from the tabletop and neatly stacked themselves onto one of the many unused chairs.

Harry grabbed cutlery from a drawer, goblets from a shelf, and an already open bottle of red wine from the bench.

‘Been drinking alone, Harry?’ Ginny asked, moving to sit opposite Harry and taking her cutlery and a goblet from him.

‘Kreacher needed some red wine for the recipe,’ Harry explained. ‘And according to the Muggle wine guide Hermione bought for me last Christmas, this is a good wine for lamb.’

‘It’s also a very expensive wine to use for cooking, Harry,’ said Ginny as she examined the bottle of Guillaume Gilles Cornas. ‘What’s the special occasion?’

‘Tonight, my fiancée is dining with me,’ he said seriously as he poured a generous quantity of the deep red and pungently earthy wine into her goblet.

‘Tonight and almost every night,’ said Ginny, laughing. She raised her goblet and tapped it against his. ‘To us! Cheers,’ she said. ‘Less than three months to go, Harry, we’ll be married before you know it.’

‘Cheers,’ said Harry. He hesitated, and then continued haltingly. ‘We do eat together frequently, but not always here. We eat out, or at your place, or at The Burrow, too.’ Harry smiled gratefully at his house elf as Kreacher placed two laden and steaming hot plates in front of them. ‘Thanks, Kreacher.

‘Yes, thanks, Kreacher,’ Ginny added. ‘This looks delicious, and it smells delicious, too.’ The house elf scuttled away, a contented smile on his face and Ginny turned her attention back to Harry.

‘Are you okay?’ she asked, knowing full well that he wasn’t. Harry was anxious, but Ginny couldn’t see why a silly competition would worry him.

He smiled apologetically. ‘I finished work at lunchtime, Ginny, and I’ve been reading these magazine articles all afternoon. They’ve made me think about … about us. The _Witch Weekly_ article was all about the romance of us “making a home together”. But as I read it, I realised that we already have. We’ve already done all of the practical stuff. The last time we redecorated this place, we chose the décor together. From bed sheets to furniture, this is already _our_ house. And at least half of your clothes are here. Really, practically, this is your home. You know it is. When you arrived, you even said “It’s good to be home after a rotten day.” I know that you’ve got your own place…. And I know that you don’t sleep here every night…. And we aren’t married…. So legally it isn’t your home.’ He paused, gathering his thoughts. ‘This is my house, and you’re my guest, but I’ve never treated you like a guest. The copy of _Witch Wedding_ talks about great romantic gestures, and wining and dining, and wooing and stuff. I’ve never really done that, either. Sorry.’

Harry thoughtfully took his first mouthful of food. Ginny gave him an understanding smile.

‘You have, Harry, in your own way,’ she told him. ‘I don’t want to be your guest, we’re friends, too, remember. If you suddenly turned into a romantic, if you started showering me with flowers, or writing poetry, I’d begin to worry about you.’ She caught the look in his eyes, and laughed. ‘Oh, Harry, you have! You’ve bought flowers, haven’t you?’ She asked as she, too, began to eat.

He shrugged with embarrassment, nodded, and swallowed. ‘They’re upstairs, in the sitting room. I was going to give them to you later.’ He sighed. ‘I’m hopeless, aren’t I?’

‘Don’t be silly, Harry. Thank you, it really is a nice gesture, but you didn’t need to make it. Which magazine do I have to thank for that?’

‘Yes,’ Harry grinned. Ginny was puzzled, but only for a second.

‘ _Witch Magazine_ ,’ she said. ‘Now shut up and eat, Potter. It looks like you’ve still got a lot of work to do, and I was hoping for an early night.’ She took a second mouthful. ‘Kreacher, this is absolutely wonderful,’ she called.

They had been eating in thoughtful silence for a few minutes when Ginny spoke. ‘I know what you mean, Harry,’ she said. ‘We’ve been together for so long that, in a way, the wedding is nothing more than a way of making us legal. Look at it this way, when we’re married this will be our house, not yours, and you’ll be able to get your hands on my enormous b-b…’ she hesitated. The second Harry lifted his head in surprise and stared at her, she continued, ‘…bank account, whenever you want.’

He snorted with laughter.

* * *

When she finished arranging the huge bouquet in the crystal vase, Ginny carefully centred the vase on the small glass table in front of the sitting room window and turned to face him. Harry was sitting on the large sofa watching her, admiring her. The fact that she was still in her scruffy old training gear did not seem to bother him. She was far from her glamorous best, but Luna’s words from their visit to the wedding dress shop came back to her: _‘Harry thinks that Ginny is beautiful whatever she’s wearing…’_ Luna was right, again.

‘The flowers are beautiful, Harry. Thank you,’ she said.

‘So are you,’ he said, as though he’d read her mind. ‘How was your day?’

She strode across to the sofa and jumped onto it, straddling him. Running her fingers through his untidy hair, she brought her lips down to kiss his scar. He gently placed his hands on her hips.

‘Three words: wet, miserable, uncoordinated,’ she told him, ‘Gwenog was a great Beater and Captain, but as club trainer she’s a complete pain in the arse. We’re still struggling to fill her position. Actually, that’s not true, we’ve got four decent Beaters but, as you know from last weekend, they don’t understand each other the way Gwenog and Blodwen did. The critics are right, our Beaters are playing as individuals, not a pair, and it’s throwing the rest of us off. But, I’m hoping that my day will improve.’ _How was your day,_ she thought, _he always asks, and he always listens to my answer, and that’s worth more than flowers and fancy talk._ She thought back to her own bad days, when her form had dropped, when the fans had heckled. He had listened to her complaints about training, about tactics, and about the fickleness of fans. Her lips hungrily sought his.

As they kissed, Harry’s hands found the hem of her sweatshirt and began to lift it. She clamped her elbows onto her ribs and pulled away from him.

‘Work first; play later. That was the agreement,’ she reminded him. ‘You have to decide on a winner for your office sweepstake.’

This is work,’ he told her, pulling up the front of her sweatshirt to reveal her bra. ‘According to _Quidditch Today_ you have a Quaffle tattooed over your heart. I don’t remember seeing it, but I thought I’d better check, just in case.’

Ginny laughed and swatted his exploring fingers away before they managed to change her mind. ‘Good excuse, Harry. But no! Let’s look at these magazines.’ She grabbed his still grasping hand and stood, hauling him to his feet.

‘You still owe me for calling me negligible,’ he said, trying a different line. ‘I was deeply hurt by that remark.’

‘No you weren’t, Harry,’ she told him. ‘But you have given me an idea for later.’

Harry’s eyes gleamed wickedly. He picked the wine bottle from the sitting room floor and re-examined it. ‘It’s all gone,’ he said. ‘Do you want to open another bottle?’

‘No, thanks, I’d rather have a coffee,’ Ginny told him.

It took Kreacher only moments to arrive with a cafetière of strong Italian coffee, a jug of cream, two cups and two glasses of water.

Soon they were lying side-by-side in front of the fire resting on their elbows while sipping coffee and looking through the final few magazine articles. Harry had shuffled sideways and his hip was resting against hers. She was idly caressing his right calf with her left foot.

‘Why haven’t I seen your tattoo?’ he asked as he closed _Which Broomstick_.

‘I’m not letting you re-examine me, Harry,’ she told him. ‘You are _not_ getting under my sweatshirt until we’ve finished.’

‘Different tattoo,’ said Harry hopefully. He reopened the magazine and showed her the article. He twisted onto one elbow and moved his free hand down to caress her backside.

‘I have broomstick on my buttock,’ she spluttered. ‘If I had, you’d think I’d have noticed, wouldn’t you, but who’d want a broomstick tattoo?’ She removed his hand. ‘If you’re a good boy, Harry, I’ll let you make sure it’s not there. Later!’ She slapped his hand away again, closed the magazine and threw it onto the “definitely-not-a-winner” pile.

Harry sighed. They lapsed into silence and continued to read for several more minutes.

‘I think that it’s going to be _Rogue_ , after all,’ said Ginny. ‘Who’d have thought that _Cheat_ would have fewer mistakes than _Rogue_?’

‘Yes, but _Cheat’s_ are bigger,’ said Harry in annoyance. ‘All of these people we’re supposed to have been with. I’ve never even heard of this Bronwen Griffith I’m supposed to have had a “passionate fling” with. And when did you lure Cormac McLaggen into a broom closet?’

‘The whole _Cheat_ article is nonsense, Harry, but it’s not actually inaccurate.’ she said slowly. She watched his face carefully, and kissed him before he could protest.

‘It isn’t,’ she said, her face only inches from his. ‘Read it carefully, Harry. It’s “anonymous sources told us” reporting. They never actually claim that any of it is true. It is “alleged that Ginny was very close to several fans” and “there where whispers about Harry’s relationship with old school friend Hermione Granger”. Everything they say is, in that sense, true. It _was_ alleged, there _were_ whispers. They simply don’t bother saying that the allegations and whispers were a load of bollocks. They must have had their lawyers look at it,’ said Ginny with certainty. She shuffled slightly further from him in order to better gauge his reaction. He looked thoughtful, and didn’t attempt to contradict her.

‘I suppose.’

‘If they report allegations as allegations, we can’t do anything about it. Even the Cormac story is true, remember? I did lure him into a broom cupboard at Hogwarts. And the conceited cretin thought he knew why. But Katie and Demelza were there, too. It was the year you were Quidditch Captain, and it was just after we’d won the cup, just after we got together.’ Ginny’s eyes sparkled happily at that memory. ‘The idiot intended to pose with us for the “Winning Team” photo, despite the fact that his only contribution to our victory was to make us lose us the only game he played in, by knocking our gorgeous Captain unconscious. I acted as decoy. Katie and Demelza stunned him, and we locked him in the broom cupboard until after the photograph had been taken. You know how unbearable he was about being on the winning team. I told you at the time! Apparently we only won because we’d finally listened to his advice. Had he been in the photo, he’d have pushed his way to prominence.’

Harry laughed.

‘I’d forgotten all about that. So, the winner is _Rogue_ , unless Hermione tells us that the _Essential Arithmancy_ article is complete rubbish,’ concluded Harry. ‘The _Rogue_ article is dreadful. Although you could argue that, as the entire thing is about the wedding of Harold James Potter and Ginerva Mary Weasley, it’s not actually about us, but about two entirely different people,’ he said with a grin.

‘Do you know who submitted it to the sweep?’ asked Ginny.

‘One of the trainees, I think,’ said Harry. ‘Possibly Trudi Pepperell, but probably Anne Wright.’ He glanced back down at the article. ‘The only error free section is where it talks about “the happy couple’s forthcoming nuptials on Saturday 24th May”. I’d have been happy if they’d managed to get the date wrong.’ He smiled wickedly. ‘Is it just me or does “nuptials” sound a bit naughty? Fancy some pre-nuptial nuptials, Ginny?’

‘The secondary meaning of nuptials is breeding, and I suspect that you knew that, Harry,’ she told him. ‘I suppose that we’re done here, now. You tidy the magazines away. I’ll be back in soon.’

She kissed him lightly on the cheek, sprang to her feet, and dashed from the room before he could stop her.

When she returned, a few minute later, she peered around the door. The magazines were in a neat stack on the floor, although he was still browsing through one of them.

She carefully adjusted her negligee. It was short and low cut and so transparent that it was difficult to justify calling it black. She pushed the door open, leant a shoulder against the doorframe, and asked, ‘What am I wearing, Harry?’

His face was a picture. Pleasure, astonishment, lust, and confusion fought with each other, and then his sense of humour caught up.

‘A negligible of course, in every sense of the word, what else would you wear for a negligible bachelor?’ he told her, laughing.


	5. Eighty-four Days: A Good Match

**Eighty-four Days: A Good Match**

The wind was gusting from the north, and its arctic blasts were cold enough to make Harry’s cheeks sting. He looked up into the clear and cloudless sky; it was the sort of flying weather Ginny loved. As he followed the chattering orange-clad crowds through Uppandown Wood, Harry wondered which combination of Beaters the Harpies would be playing. He had his own ideas of course, every fan did.

As Harry neared the stadium, he spotted his two best friends in the distance. They were standing outside the Gold Club entrance, waiting for him to arrive. Ron, like most of his fellow fans, was in orange. He wore a bright orange sweater with the double-C logo of the Cannons on the front, together with a matching hat and scarf. Hermione had, as she usually did during these games, decided to remain neutral. She wore a smart burgundy-coloured coat with matching gloves and cloche; she was a solitary red berry in a surging sea of orange.

On seeing that Ron was already wearing his team’s colours, Harry pulled his own hat and scarf from his pockets and put them on. It would help his friends to spot him in the crowd, but it was also a provocative act, he knew that. He was still adjusting his scarf when someone shouted at him. It was friendly banter; the Cannons fans were a good-natured bunch, and they rarely indulged in serious name-calling or violence. Ginny always told Ron that it was because they weren’t very good at hooliganism, either.

‘Yeh migh’ need a new pair o’ glasses, pal. The visiting fans entrance is the other side o’ the ground.’ The dumpy little middle-aged man who shouted at Harry was wearing a knitted orange pullover Harry glanced at the pullover, which was straining under enormous pressure as it fought a losing battle with the man’s almost hemispherical belly, and tried not to think of him as a giant Satsuma.

Harry caught the man’s eyes and grinned. ‘I only come here once a year and I always sit on this side of the ground. My mate’s a Cannons fan,’ he called. ‘He’s so daft about them that my girlfriend and I bought him Gold Club membership for Christmas.’

As Harry shouted back, he saw the man’s eyes widen in recognition. Glancing around, he realised that many other fans had recognised him, too. He heard the name “Harry Potter” as it whispered its way through the crowds.

_Now it will really start_ , Harry thought. He was right.

‘Do us all a favour, Potter. Get your girl up the duff sharpish-like,’ someone shouted. Harry looked, but was unable to identify the owner of the voice.

‘He don’t need to, the Harpies are off their game anyway. Their Beaters are all crap,’ someone else said.

And so the banter ended and the heckling began. Words, some sharp, some blunt, some witty, some witless, buzzed around Harry like maddened bees. Many were attempting to sting him, but he was immune to most. He caught only a handful of the dozens of shouted comments, and they were easily swatted away.

‘The Harpies Chasers aren’t much better. That’s why they’re dropping down the league.’

‘Yeah, they’ve almost dropped into the bottom half of the table! They won’t be getting into the European Champions League this year.’

‘Huh, so what? When’s the last time we qualified for Europe?’

‘Nineteen-twelve.’

‘I know _that_. It were a rhetorical question, ye’ nugget.’

‘Weasley’s still scoring.’

‘I’d like to score wi’ ‘er.’ Harry heard that particularly gruff and lust filled voice with perfect clarity. He usually did, his ears seemed to have an uncanny ability to attune to the words he didn’t like to hear. He looked around, but the owner of the voice was well hidden within the crowd. That was when the swarm of words turned a little nastier, and really tried to sting him.

‘What’s she like in the sack, Potter? If she’s as energetic as she is in the air, I’m surprised that she hasn’t broken yer broom.’

‘Seen the calendar? They’ve used the pictures in the match programme.’

‘Yeah, it’s true what they say, Ginny has her knockers.’

‘Yeah, and I’d like to get a hold of ‘em.’

‘She should play in that bikini.’

There was a lot of laughter, but Harry clenched his teeth and didn’t rise to the bait. He’d heard it all before, he reminded himself sternly. After three years of following Ginny to almost every game, both home and away, he’d eventually become used to the catcalls. Every Harpies player was subjected to ribald, rude and sometimes sexually explicit comments by the opposing teams’ fans. As the final few comments proved, the Official Harpies 2003 Swimsuit Calendar, which had been photographed in Portugal, hadn’t helped matters.

‘Don’t listen to ‘em,’ a wizened and ancient witch who was hobbling along next to Harry observed under her breath. ‘Hearing this lot, you wouldn’t think that, even though they’re off-form, the Harpies are a lot higher up the league than us. We’re still rubbish; I don’t know why I bother coming here.’

‘I do,’ Harry told her. He leaned in close and whispered conspiratorially. ‘It’s because you’re a fan.’ The old lady chuckled and patted his arm.

Because Harry wasn’t rising to their baiting, the fans simply began chanting: ‘Cannons! Cannons!’ The chant increased in volume as the crowds approached the turnstiles. The queues were forming rapidly, snaking their way into the woods from the entrances. Harry moved sideways past the queues and towards Ron and Hermione, who were still standing outside the ornate glass canopy which sheltered members of the Cannons’ Gold Club from any inclement weather.

‘Hi, Ron, happy birthday,’ said Harry, giving his friend a quick brotherly hug before turning to Ron’s wife. ‘Hi, Hermione.’

‘Hi, Harry,’ said Hermione, hugging him and kissing his cheek.

‘Your present is still at Grimmauld Place, Ron. We’ll give it to you after the game,’ Harry told his friend.

‘Thanks, mate. Ready for a trouncing?’ Ron asked. He stepped back and rubbed his hands in anticipation.

Harry snorted with laughter. ‘The Harpies haven’t been playing well this season, Ron, but they aren’t so badly off form that the Cannons will be able to beat them.’

‘Huh,’ Ron gave a dismissive shrug.

‘How is the wedding planning going?’ Hermione interjected. ‘Is everything organised?’

‘Almost,’ Harry lied, not looking her in the eyes.

Hermione didn’t argue, instead she simply showed her disbelief with a sceptical look powerful enough to make his stomach churn. Turning away, she led her husband and her friend into the Cannon’s ground. While Hermione was showing the Gold Club season pass to the reception-witch, and ordering teas and pies for their box in the executive area of the ground, Ron took the opportunity to return the conversation to the Quidditch match they were about to see.’

We’re sure to win,’ said Ron as they made their way through the corridor which led to the executive box.

‘No you’re not,’ said Harry confidently.

‘We are,’ said Ron. He raised his fist to count the points in his team’s favour, and began by unfurling his little finger. ‘One, your team lost their International Seeker last summer when she went back to Australia and her replacement—what’s her name?’

‘Jeannette Pinder,’ said Harry.

‘Yeah, her! She has a snitch-catch percentage of only thirty-seven,’ said Ron dismissively.

‘Which is twelve percent more than the Cannons Seeker,’ Hermione murmured. Harry looked at her in amazement; she didn’t usually remember Quidditch statistics.

Ron ignored his wife and unfurled his ring finger. ‘Two, they’ve played a different combination of Beaters in every game since Christmas, and their Beaters’ strike-rate has plummeted since both Gwenog Jones and Blodwen James retired.’ He unfurled his middle finger. ‘Three, Gillian Gilfillan is injured, so they’re playing some girl called Raveena Singh, she’s just eighteen and she’s never had a first team game.’

‘She’s the age Ginny was when she had her first game,’ said Harry, grinning.

Ron ignored the comment, straightened his forefinger held his hand in front of Harry’s face. ‘Four, Tegan Godolphin is nowhere near as good a Captain as Gwenog Jones was.’ Ron triumphantly extended his thumb. ‘And, five, last weekend, the Harpies lost their first home game since they signed Ginny. Ballycastle Bats, of all teams, beat them. Even we can beat the Bats!’

‘Twice in the last five years,’ said Hermione.

‘Have you been swotting, Hermione?’ asked Harry curiously.

‘She bought me the Official History of Chudley Cannons for my birthday,’ said Ron. ‘I think she read it first.’

‘It was a lot more interesting than I thought it would be,’ said Hermione. ‘They’ve got a huge number of league records, you know.’

‘Yeah, they’re the only team in the league to have completed a season without winning any games, or even catching the Snitch, and they also hold the all time record for the least number of goals scored in a season,’ said Harry knowledgeably. He grinned at Ron.

‘That was forty years ago,’ said Ron grumpily. ‘You won’t be laughing after we trounce the Harpies. Your team was rubbish last week.’

It was true, Harry knew, and he knew how hard Gwenog, who was now the Harpies trainer, had been pushing her team. The constant practicing and the tactical changes had intensified almost to the point of insanity after their home defeat the previous weekend.

The match against the Bats had been farcical. A misunderstanding between the two Harpies Beaters had resulted in them both being drawn to one Bludger, and “Gil-Gil”, as the fans called Chaser Gillian Gilfillan, had taken the other Bludger to the back of the head. She had been carried off, seriously injured and it would be weeks before she’d be fit enough to fly. One Chaser short, and with the Beaters’ confidence shattered by their elementary mistake, the Harpies had fallen to pieces. Harry, however, was not particularly worried, as he knew a few things about the restructured squad which Ron didn’t.

Ron opened the door to the warm and cosy private box, but Harry remained outside and gave his friend a knowing smile.

‘Five interesting points, Ron, but they aren’t important. I only need one,’ he said. ‘You’re coming to our place for a birthday meal tonight, and we’re going to your mum’s for Sunday lunch tomorrow. There is no way Harpies Captain Ginny Weasley will allow her brother to get bragging rights.’

‘There… wait… what?’ said Ron. ‘They’ve made Ginny Captain? Seriously?’

Harry nodded. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to sneak down to the Visitors’ changing room. I have to ensure a Harpies victory.’

‘Are you _still_ doing that?’ Hermione asked.

‘Ginny’s pre-match warm-ups are very important for both of us,’ said Harry, nodding. He turned to his best friend and stared up into his face. ‘The real reason the Harpies lost last weekend, Ron, is that Ginny couldn’t warm up properly. We had an unscheduled “All Auror alert” only twenty minutes before the start of the game. Polly and her team walked into a carefully prepared ambush.’

‘Bloody hell,’ said Ron. ‘It wasn’t in the papers. Was anyone…’

‘Some minor injuries, but we caught most of the gang who carried out the ambush. There’s a reason it hasn’t made the papers, I’ve told the Press Office to keep it quiet, I don’t need to tell you two not to tell anyone. You won’t read about it for a few weeks because a couple of them got away, and it turned out that someone had Imperiused the gang leader. We’re still trying to find out who. But that’s work, and you aren’t an Auror any longer, Ron.’ He grinned at his friend, and strode out from the box. ‘You know where I’m going; I won’t be long,’ he called over his shoulder.

Harry strolled along the corridor, used his wand to open the locked door marked “Staff Only”, slipped down two flights of stairs, and stepped out into the players’ tunnel. About ten yards away to his left, on the opposite side of the tunnel, was a door marked “Visitors”. To his right, about thirty yards away, the three security wizards who had been looking out over the pitch turned and marched towards him.

‘What’re ye’ doin’ down here?’ the nearest began.

‘Visiting my fiancée,’ said Harry.

‘What? Fiancée? You can just stop right there, mate,’ the man called threateningly. ‘This is a staff and players only area, you’re not allowed down here.’

As the security wizards had been facing away from him, looking out onto the brightness of the pitch, they had not recognised him in the semi-dark of the corridor. The three men began marching towards him, so Harry moved rapidly away, dashed up to the door to the visitors changing room, and gave three rapid knocks.

The door was opened immediately, and Ginny jumped into his arms. It was a manoeuvre with which they were very well practiced. Harry stood just outside the door. Because of the foibles of the Harpies Keeper, he wasn’t allowed to enter, and Ginny wasn’t allowed to set foot outside the changing room.

‘Warm up time,’ said Ginny happily.

They kissed. It was a slow and gentle kiss. After a few moments Harry was vaguely aware that the security wizards had arrived. However, they did not interfere.

‘It’s only Potter and Weasley,’ said one of the security wizards gruffly. ‘They were at it last year, as well.’

‘They do it before almost every game,’ Tegan Godolphin called from within the changing room. ‘My advice is that you leave them to it. You don’t want to cross either of them.’

There was some grumbling, but by the time Harry carefully lowered Ginny back inside the changing room, the security wizards had left.

Remembering his earlier discussions with Hermione, Harry decided that he’d better warn his girlfriend. ‘Oh, Hermione’s worried that we haven’t got the wedding completely organised yet, Ginny. Expect…’

‘I’ll tell her that I threw that damn stupid wedding organiser she bought for us in the fire,’ Ginny snapped. ‘It’s our wedding, and we’ll organise it in our own way, and in our own time.’

‘Don’t you think…?’

‘Merlin, Harry, now is not the time to start on this! I’ve got a match to win. Besides, if you want Hermione to run your life for you, why didn’t you ask _her_ to marry you?’

‘She’s my friend, Ginny. She worries about us,’

‘She worries about everything, Harry,’ said Ginny forcefully. ‘She’s my friend, too, remember. She’d have plans and lists and notes and charts, because it helps her. It drives me crazy! And it drives you crazy, too.’

‘True,’ admitted Harry. ‘But she has a point, Ginny, we…’

‘Tomorrow, Harry! We _do_ need to sort stuff out, I know that, but we can do it tomorrow. It’s been a busy few weeks for both of us.’

‘Is everything okay, Captain?’ Harry asked. He could see her nerves. They were obvious in her slightly lop-sided stance, and the way she was unconsciously fiddling with the Captain’s armband she was wearing. It was apparent to him that her outburst wasn’t entirely due to Hermione’s interference.

‘Fine,’ Ginny told him, but when she looked up into his face and smiled, he could see the anxiety in her bright brown eyes.

‘You’ll make a great Captain, Ginny,’ he told her with certainty. He reached forwards and tenderly stroked her cheek with the tips of his fingers, trying to physically pass her his support and encouragement.

Ginny’s hair was, as always during a game, tied into a ponytail with ribbons of Harpies green. She smiled at his words and her nerves were replaced by a look of fiery determination. She threw off her worries with a sudden shake of her head which sent the flaming red rope of her hair flying, and caused Harry’s heart to skip a beat.

‘Thanks, Harry. I think that the changes are going to work,’ she told him. ‘Everyone knows what they’re supposed to be doing.’

‘Don’t forget that it’s Ron’s birthday,’ he said.

‘I’ve told the team,’ said Ginny, grinning. ‘We’re going to make sure he’ll never forget it.’

Harry laughed.

‘It’s time to go, Harpies,’ a voice called.

‘Bye, Harry,’ said Ginny. She blew him a final kiss, and then reluctantly closed the door in his face.

‘Bye Ginny, and good luck Harpies. Go out there and win,’ he told the door quietly.

* * *

‘Cheer up, Ron,’ said Ginny. ‘It’s your birthday.’

The four friends were sitting in the dining room at Grimmauld Place, and Kreacher had just placed a steaming steak and kidney pie on the table in front of them. The room had been decorated with banners proclaiming “Ron Weasley: 23 Today” but Ron wasn’t in a mood to celebrate.

‘Yeah, it’s not the first time the Cannons have been beaten by a one thousand point margin,’ said Harry. He tried his best to sound consoling. Unfortunately, his pride in his fiancée’s achievements in her first game as captain won out, and what he’d intended to be soothing words came out sounding very much like a gloat. Ron’s scowl deepened.

‘Although we did manage to it in one hour and fifteen minutes, which is a record fast time,’ said Ginny, who obviously had no intention of letting up on her brother.

‘Making the book I bought you out of date,’ added Hermione. It seemed to Harry that she was more annoyed about that fact than anything else.

‘Gits,’ Ron told them.

‘Happy birthday, Ron,’ said Harry, concerned by his friend’s mood. He gave Ron an apologetic smile and handed him a small rectangular parcel. ‘I hope that this will make up for your team’s defeat.’

‘At least a little bit,’ added Ginny.

Ron took out his frustration on the wrapping paper, ripping and tearing it into tiny shreds before carefully opening the flat orange box inside. As he looked inside, he gasped, and stared in astonishment at both Harry and Ginny. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

Curious, Hermione tried to take the box from her husband’s hands. He simply tightened his grip, staring into the box as though he was afraid to give it up. Hermione stood and moved behind Ron in order to better see the framed photograph he was holding so tightly. The photograph was black and white, and was of a team in old-fashioned Cannon’s robes jumping for joy, waving happily, and passing a shining cup from player to player. Underneath every player, there was a signature.

‘It’s the League Cup squad from 1950. The last time we won anything! And it’s autographed. Is … is it _really_ genuine?’ asked Ron, his voice hoarse with emotion.

‘That’s an Autoquill Dictation Deluxe,’ Hermione began, pointing to one of the signatures. Ginny looked up at Hermione, and motioned her into silence.

‘It’s as genuine as we could make it, mate,’ said Harry. ‘Ginny should tell the story, she bought the photograph, and it was her idea.’

Ginny, too, stood. Walking around the table to stand next to her brother, she pointed to a woman standing in the centre of the photograph. ‘The photograph is genuine, Ron. It’s an original, that’s Naomi Godfrey,’ she said. ‘The Cannons owners sold most of this team during the closed season, just after they won the cup.’

‘They made a fortune, and retired, and the club never recovered,’ Ron grumbled.

‘Naomi Godfrey was signed by the Harpies,’ said Ginny. ‘She played for us for the rest of her career. Her daughter, Isabel, still works for us, she’s head of our grounds staff. Naomi died just before Christmas.’

‘Yeah, there was an obituary in the Cannon’s programme the following weekend,’ said Ron.

‘Isabel Smith—Godfrey as was—found this photo when she was clearing out her mum’s house. She brought it into the stadium—just to remind us who her mum was, I think. I asked her what she was going to do with it, and she said she was going to try to sell it. I knew you’d like it, so I contacted Harry and he agreed that we should make her an offer. It’s Naomi Godfrey’s official copy of the team photo, Ron, one of only a dozen in existence. The players all got one, and so did the management. The official Cannons stamp, and issue number is on the back. This is number six of twelve, but you’ll have to take it out of the frame if you want to check it. When we bought it, it had been signed by Naomi and four of the other players. And that’s where Harry comes in.’

‘I wondered whether we could get the missing signatures,’ Harry told his friend. ‘So I tried to track down the two remaining players. I didn’t have much luck until I discovered that one of the players who _had_ signed it had never left Chudley.’

‘Nobby Carlton,’ said Ron, nodding. ‘He’s still on the Cannon’s board. In fact, he’s the only sensible bloke we’ve got on the board.’

‘I spoke to Nobby, and he told me about the two players I was looking for. He’d lost touch with them. He had no idea where they were, but he gave me a few clues. I got enough information for me to be able to track them down. Mary Spinnaker took me a while. She lives in France, but I found her and persuaded her to sign it.’

Ron peered at the signature. ‘“To Ron, Happy Birthday, Mary Spinnaker”. ‘Wow,’ he whispered.

‘That left only Albert Barrington…’ began Harry.

‘The infamous “Bazza”,’ said Ron, looking at the Autoquill signature sadly. ‘He was the only player who wasn’t sold, because no one would have him. The joke at the time was that he was an average player who was never average, and that was the trouble. Half the time he was totally brilliant, and the other half he was absolute rubbish. The club fired him a couple of years later. He had a serious drink problem. I assume he’s dead, and that’s why…’

‘No, he’s not dead. He still has a drink problem, in fact I think he’s pickled in alcohol,’ said Harry. ‘I eventually traced him in a retirement home. His hands shake so badly that he can’t write. It _is_ an Autoquill signature, but it’s Bazza’s own Autoquill, and they’re his words, Ron, that’s what he dictated to his quill. I tried to make him understand what I wanted, but think he thought you were someone else. He certainly had no idea who I was.’

Ron read the words, “To my old drinking buddy, Ron – from your mate, Bazza”.

‘That’s…’ Ron stifled a sob and began to laugh. ‘That’s bloody brilliant. It’s typical of Bazza; he never seemed to know what was happening, even when he was playing, and he must be at least ninety now. Thanks, Harry. Thanks, Ginny.’ He looked across the table at Harry, and gave his friend a watery-eyed smile.

‘Any time, mate.’

‘You’re welcome, Ron,’ added Ginny. ‘Now put the photo away, you don’t want to spill gravy on it, and you don’t want this pie to go cold, either.’ She served her brother a large piece of pie, and then impetuously kissed his cheek. ‘Happy birthday, Ron. Now, can we eat? I’m famished. I always am after a match.’

‘About the wedding, Ginny…’ Hermione began while Ginny walked back to her seat.

‘Planning meeting here, tomorrow morning, at ten o’clock!’ said Ginny. ‘It’s Ron’s birthday, we’re not talking about it tonight. This is Ron’s special day, and I want to spend the evening gloating about the Harpies win.’


	6. Eighty-three Days: Cake for Breakfast

**Eighty Three Days: Cake for Breakfast**

The first thing he heard was the familiar noise of his wife’s exhalations.

‘Pfhhh… pfhhh…’ Hermione’s breathing was regular, and almost hypnotically soothing.

As he languidly crept towards full wakefulness, Ron kept his eyes closed and listened to the familiar noise. He was grinning happily to himself when he finally decided that it was time to move.

When he opened his eyes, Ron was confused. Instead of the white ceiling of their Chelsea flat, he saw the once-familiar deep red awning of a four poster bed. His confusion lasted only a moment, as the bedroom was very familiar to him; it had been his until his wedding.

Rolling carefully onto his side, Ron looked across at his wife. She was, of course, lying on her back; it was the only time she made that noise. He continued to watch her sleep for a few moments. The sheets rose with her chest as she inhaled through her nose. Then, as she expelled the air her closed lips were pushed open by the air.

‘Pfhhh…’

Ron’s contemplation was interrupted by a faint noise from the ceiling. Someone in the room above was awake and moving. Hoping that it was Harry, Ron slipped carefully out of bed. As he looked at the bedside table, his smile broadened as he caught sight of the autographed Cannons photograph lying on it.

His present from Harry and Ginny was their best yet. It was probably the best present he’d ever had, but he would never be able to admit that to Hermione. If only the Cannons had beaten the Harpies, yesterday would have been his best birthday ever. It would have been the best day of his life.

 _What about your wedding day?_ his treacherous conscience asked. It used Hermione’s voice, too. It always did when it was scolding him. _Best_ birthday _of my life_ , he decided. His conscience nodded approvingly, causing its bushy brown hair to fly. Despite the Cannons losing, it had been a really good day. His sister had proved what a good captain and brilliant flyer she was.

Hermione had not stirred. Her face was relaxed and peaceful in sleep, and framed by the magnificent chaos of her hair. He was, as usual, tempted to kiss her nose, but he resisted. Deciding that he would leave her to sleep, he slipped quietly from the bed. Pausing to smile fondly at her sleeping form, he padded quietly across to the door; as he did so, he thought about the previous evening.

They had drunk a lot of wine and talked and joked, but Hermione was beginning to get anxious about Harry and Ginny’s wedding. It was becoming an obsession with her, which was not going to make life easy for anyone. “I’m Matron of Honour, it’s my duty to make sure that everything is organised,” Hermione had said when, for about the twentieth time, she had attempted to turn the conversation to the wedding.

“Tomorrow,” Ginny had said firmly.

Tomorrow was now today. They would discuss it after breakfast. Ron was grateful that he wouldn’t have much to do but listen and nod. _You’re the best man, remember. You’ll have to make a speech. You should be preparing it_ , his inner-Hermione reminded him. He tried to ignore her.

When they had finally decided to call it a night, at about half past one in the morning, there had been no reason for Ron and Hermione to go home. They’d all had a lot to drink, and Ron hated to use the Floo network when he was even a little tipsy. They could have walked, or taken a taxi. But why travel the four-and-a-half miles from Harry’s house back to their Chelsea flat only to return the following morning?

As Harry and Ginny had pointed out, there was plenty of room for guests. Number Twelve Grimmauld Place was a huge house, and until his wedding, Harry would be living there alone. At least that was the theory. Ron was well aware that, despite what their mother thought, his sister actually spent very little time in the house in Beaumaris that she was buying.

Ron had agreed, and so had Hermione, that the sensible thing to do was to stop over and to have the urgent (in Hermione’s opinion) discussion about the wedding before travelling to her parents’ house for Sunday dinner.

Taking his dressing gown from the hook on his bedroom door was such an automatic action that Ron had pulled it on and fastened it before he realised that it shouldn’t be there. Their overnight stay had been unplanned, so the dressing gown should be at their flat on Cheyne Walk. Hermione’s dressing gown was, Ron noticed, hanging beneath his own. _Thanks, Kreacher,_ he whispered quietly, once again marvelling at the efficiency of Harry’s house elf.

Ron stepped carefully out onto the landing and closed the door as quietly as he could. He had just eased it shut when he heard a floorboard creak behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw his sister.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ he whispered disappointedly. ‘I thought it would be Harry.’

Ginny wrinkled her nose, pulled a face at him, and childishly stuck out her tongue. With startling clarity, Ron was reminded of the morning after his tenth birthday. He scrunched up his own face and softly blew a raspberry at her. She grinned, so he held out his hand.

‘C’mon, little Ginny, don’t wake the others,’ he said, using a soft and conspiratorial “little boy” voice. ‘There’s some of my birthday cake left, but not enough for everyone.’

Ginny grinned and, it seemed to Ron, she was remembering the last time he’d said something similar to her. When, for the first time since he had gone to school, his sister took his hand, he was certain that she was back in the past. Her words confirmed it.

‘Greedy Bill would scoff the lot,’ she whispered little-girl-like, as they scampered downstairs like the children they had once been.

When they arrived in the kitchen, the kettle was boiling. ‘Thanks, Kreacher,’ said Ginny. ‘I’ll take over, if you don’t mind. I want to talk to Ron.’

‘Mistress.’ The house elf acknowledged her words with a deep bow, and vanished.

‘I’ll make the tea, Ron,’ said Ginny. ‘You can cut the cake.’ She stared seriously up into her brother’s face, folded her arms, and did her best impersonation of their mother. ‘You know the rules, Ronald. You cut, and Ginny gets first choice.’

‘Bloody hell, Ginny,’ Ron complained. ‘You’re as bad as Mum.’

‘It’s the fairest way,’ Ginny told him.

She left him trying to cut the cake as evenly as he could, and walked over to the stove to make the tea. When she rejoined him, a steaming mug in each hand, he pushed the two plates towards her.

‘Your choice,’ said Ron grumpily, he knew that there was no point in simply taking a piece.

As Ginny carefully set the mugs down on the table, her hair cascaded over her face. Ron watched as she lifted her hand and ran her fingers through her hair, pushing the wayward locks back over her shoulder. She carefully examined the two slices, sighed, and took the piece which Ron’s expert eye for food told him was definitely the smaller. He stared at her in disbelief, but hastily grabbed the other piece of cake, just in case she changed her mind. She didn’t react.

‘Are you okay, Ginny?’ Ron asked, worried by the way she was acting.

She stared thoughtfully up into his eyes. From her expression it seemed that she was pondering his question with a lot more care than it required.

‘Yes. No. I don’t know,’ she said unhelpfully. She began picking at the chocolate cake with her fingers. Ron took a large bite from his own slice in order to guarantee ownership rights.

‘What’s it like, Ron?’ she asked quietly.

‘Wha’s wha’ ’ike…’ Ron mumbled, spraying crumbs. He paused, hastily swallowed the cake, and washed it down with a slurp of tea. Ginny stared at him in contemplative silence while staring at the gold ring he wore on the third finger of his left hand.

 _Being married!_ Ron realised.

As he looked into her face, his imagination went into overdrive. _Is she getting cold feet? Why? What’s happened? Merlin! What will happen if she calls it off? How will poor Harry react? Mum will explode!_ He thought back to the events of the previous evening, and calmed himself down. _They’re good together. Relaxed. Happy,_ he reassured himself. If there was a problem, he’d have seen it. After all she was his sister, and Harry was his best friend. _And anyway,_ he assured himself, _Harry was pants at hiding his feelings._

 _But Ginny’s good at it,_ his paranoia whispered treacherously.

‘Are you worried about getting married?’ he asked. ‘Or about _being_ married?’ he added with a sudden dazzling insight.

Ginny remained silent, looked down, and again began to pick at the cake. Ron’s paranoia escaped from its chains and attempted to overwhelm him by crowding his brain with weeping mothers, confused Harry’s, and ravening reporters.

His sister gave the tiniest of nods. ‘Being,’ she said quietly.

‘Did you and Harry argue?’ he asked. ‘Did you fall out over something after you went to bed last night? I know what you’re like, Ginny. Sometimes you…’

‘No, Ron, we have _not_ fallen out. Yes, we argue, sometimes. But we’re not at each other’s throats all the time. We’re not like you and Hermione,’ she said, bristling. ‘I’m happy with things just the way they are. We haven’t argued for ages, we didn’t fall out last night. Everything is perfect.’

‘Hermione and me don’t argue! Well, not often,’ protested Ron, puzzled. ‘We don’t always agree about everything, but that’s not the same thing.’

‘Yes it is!’ snapped Ginny in frustration. ‘When you two “don’t always agree,” you do it by shouting at each other! It may surprise you, Ron, but that’s what normal people call arguing,’ she told him. ‘I don’t know why I thought that talking to you would be a good idea. You’re an idiot.’

Ron bristled, but fought back his anger and stared at her in silence. _I’m happy with things just the way they are, everything is perfect_ , Ginny’s words resonated with Ron, and he finally understood.

‘You’re happy with Harry. You’re happy together, and you’re comfortable with the way your life is now,’ he said. ‘Hermione’s dad has a phrase he uses: “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it”. And you and Harry “ain’t broke”.’

‘Exactly,’ said Ginny, her eyes gleaming as he finally understood. ‘So why change anything? Sod the wedding and the dress and the ridiculous expense and all the other stuff that goes with getting married. Flowers and catering and table arrangements and entertainment and… It’s ridiculous! I could just move in with him. I almost have, anyway.’

‘Moving in is a change,’ Ron reminded her. ‘And, apart from moving in, what, exactly, will getting married change?’ Ron asked. ‘You’re together now! You’ll be together afterwards, too.’ As he spoke he stared into his sister’s face and knew that there was more. ‘Somebody’s said something, haven’t they? Was it one of the Cannon’s players?’

‘No,’ said Ginny. ‘Well, Gil-Gil has been making a few jokes about babies and stuff, and threatening to get me seriously drunk on my hen night. But otherwise…’ She shrugged.

‘You could always elope,’ suggested Ron. ‘That would be cheap. And best of all, I wouldn’t have to give a speech.’

Ginny snorted, and Ron saw the corners of her mouth beginning to twitch.

‘I’ll tell you what the “changes” are,’ said Ron. ‘It’s little stuff. Why is it a big deal if I leave hairs in the soap? What on earth is the problem with me using the last of the toilet paper and not replacing it? I mean, it’s in the cupboard under the sink. It’s only on the other side of the bathroom. But no, I should put it on the holder! Even then, when I remember to do it, it’s hanging the wrong way. What the hell does that mean? Who really cares which way the toilet paper is hanging? It’s crazy!’

Ginny began to smile, so he continued.

‘And the kitchen! Don’t tell Hermione I said this, but she’s worse than Mum! I mean, I can understand Mum getting cross when Dad used the kitchen when he was rebuilding Sirius’s bike. That chain oil was horrible stuff, and it went everywhere. But all I did was…’ he put on his most confused expression. ‘I was _hungry_ , and all the pans were dirty except the frying pan. And it _is_ a pan; it’s even got the word pan in its name – you can’t argue with that. And I managed to scrape the burned baked beans off, eventually. And why do Muggles call it non-stick? It bloody well isn’t! And I bought a new frying pan, too, so what’s the problem?’

Ginny spluttered with laughter, and dribbled chocolate cake.

‘Why are you laughing? These are the sort of problems you’re going to have to face! I’m serious.’

Ginny slurped her tea and wiped her mouth, spreading the chocolate cake up her cheek. ‘I know you are Ron,’ she admitted. ‘But, damn it, Ron! Marriage is a lifelong commitment. It’s two people sharing lives and problems and everything. It’s huge, it’s life-changing! And you’re talking about toilet paper and burnt pans, it’s…’

‘It’s not much different, to how we were before, to be honest,’ said Ron. ‘We talk about money more than we did before we were married; how much we want to save, what we want to do with it. But, honestly, Ginny, the big things: like me moving into her flat so we can save up to get a house in the country, rather than her selling up immediately and us buying somewhere small together; like Hermione applying to transfer out of “Magical Creatures” and into D.M.L.E. once all the creature rights legislation is through; like whether we want kids; like when we want to have them. They’re the easy questions! Honestly, Ginny, me buying the wrong brand of breakfast cereal is a much bigger deal than any of that stuff! And I can deal with that. After all, if Hermione doesn’t like the cereal, I’ve bought, it’s more for me.’

Ginny laughed again, and Ron saw his sister’s eyes regain their glow.

‘I get to share a bed with Hermione every night, that’s probably the biggest change,’ he told her. ‘And that’s all I’m saying about that.’

‘But the wedding…’

‘Oh come off it, Ginny,’ Ron said. ‘You had a great time at our wedding, and so did Harry even though he had to give a speech. Don’t tell anyone, but I had a great time too. It’s friends and family and fun; if it’s done right. Okay the run up, and the organisation, is a complete pain in the arse. All the hassle and panics and the hotel cocking up the number of rooms we’d booked and all the other stuff going wrong.

‘But it was a good day, despite the problems. And besides, that won’t be a problem for you. I reckon you did the right thing with the printers. They leaked the date, and other details and you sacked them instantly. You went for a different company, and it made all of the papers. I know what Harry’s like about the press, you, too. But they can be useful sometimes.’

How?’ Ginny asked.

‘The publicity about the printers will put everyone else on their toes. Everyone you hire knows exactly what happened to Bind Brothers. The florist and the caterers and everyone else you need to organise will do a good job, I know that they will. “Oh, you’re the caterers who cocked everything up at Harry Potter’s wedding!” That’s enough to put someone out of business!

‘George met a bloke in the Cauldron the other day who works for Bind Brothers. He said that their orders had slumped. I’ve even heard a rumour that Barclay and Bartholomew Bind are trying to sack their brother because of what he did. You won’t have any problems with anyone else.

‘And anyway,’ Ron concluded. ‘You should know that the next few weeks will be fraught, because you play Quidditch.’

‘What?’ Ginny stared at him. ‘What the hell has Quidditch got to do with anything?’

‘It’s obvious,’ Ron told her. ‘You have days of graft and hard work and arguments to make sure that everything’s perfect for the big game on the Saturday. And when you win, it was all worth it.’

Ginny laughed. ‘You know, Ron,’ she told him, ‘Sometimes I think that there’s a working brain inside that thick skull of yours after all.’

Ron placed his finger on his lips. ‘Shhh, don’t tell anyone,’ he said. ‘They might expect me to use it all the time.’

Ginny stood, stepped forwards, and kissed her brother on the forehead. ‘Thanks Ron. I’ll get some parchment; we need to make a list. We’ve got a wedding to organise.’

‘We certainly have,’ said Harry as he walked down the stairs into the kitchen. ‘Chocolate cake for breakfast? Really? I thought that by now I knew all of the Weasley peculiarities. I don’t suppose that there’s any left, is there?’

‘All gone,’ Ginny told him.

‘What have you been doing? It’s all over your face, Ginny. And you’ve even managed to get some on your forehead, Ron.’ Harry shook his head in disbelief.

‘Sometimes, all a girl needs is a slice of chocolate cake and a wise brother,’ said Ginny.

‘Wise?’ chorused Ron and Harry in unison.

‘Ron?’ Hermione added from the doorway.


	7. Seventy-one Days: Répondez S'il Vous Plaît

**Seventy-one Days: Répondez S'il Vous Plaît**

‘The young couple next door have a new car,’ Petunia observed as she peered out of the living room window.

‘What?’ her husband muttered. He briefly lifted his head from the Daily Mail in order to give an annoyed snort. ‘They bought one six months ago, just after they moved in! These youngsters; they’ve got more money than sense, the lot of them!’

‘Except Dudley,’ Petunia reminded him. ‘It’s a little red sports car, and the other car is still on their drive. I think it must be for her.’ She paused, and continued to watch her neighbours. ‘It is; he’s giving her the keys,’ she announced triumphantly.

‘Two cars? Well, no point in us having two cars, is there? You don’t drive.’

‘No, I don’t,’ Petunia admitted. Her husband had already returned his attention to his newspaper, so didn’t see her face.

‘The postman’s arrived. He’s getting a lot of letters from his bag, at least a dozen. I think that it must be her birthday. He’s bought her a car for her birthday. The postman is talking to them, and he’s giving her all of the letters. She’s smiling. Now he’s showing them another letter. But he’s not giving it to them. Oh…’ Petunia took two steps backwards, away from the window.

‘Something the matter?’ Vernon asked, reluctantly raising his head from the paper.

‘The postman pointed at our house. I think they saw me, Vernon,’ Petunia told him.

‘They’ve seen you before,’ he reminded her. ‘You said they came snooping around when they first moved in, pretending to “introduce themselves”, but really just nosy neighbours. Knew it!’ he added triumphantly, turning the newspaper to show her the headline. ‘Says here that single mother author lied about the help she got. Scrounging useless woman, and now she’s a millionaire! I subsidised her! She should give me my money back!’

‘They did introduce themselves, that’s all they did,’ Petunia said, refusing to be diverted by her husband’s rant.

‘Busybodies,’ snorted Vernon dismissively. ‘They were snooping. They’re much too interested in other people’s business.’

‘They said hello, because we’re neighbours,’ Petunia told her husband rather sharply. He didn’t notice.

The letterbox rattled.

‘No bills due,’ grumbled Vernon. ‘Some advert, probably, or one of those begging letters from some so-called charity or other. Save the children, famine relief, or some such nonsense.’ He again returned to his newspaper.

Petunia sighed, left her husband reading, and walked out into the hall. She was struck by a sudden, worrying thought. What if the postman had been showing the neighbours _their_ letter? It had happened before, and she had never forgotten the embarrassment of the incident. Suddenly anxious, she looked down at the doormat. When she saw the envelope, her heart missed a beat and she gave a short, high-pitched and worried whine.

The envelope was thick parchment and it was sealed with a blob of red wax on which the letter “W” had been embossed. It was very old-fashioned and unusual looking, and Petunia was almost certain that it was the same envelope the postman had shown to her neighbours.

From the hesitant and cautious way Petunia approached the envelope, an impartial observer would have suspected that she was worried that it would explode before she reached it. Bending over to examine it more closely, she noticed that the letters R.S.V.P. had been neatly printed on the back. Carefully hooking a fingernail under one corner of the envelope, she flicked it over.

Unfortunately, at the exact moment the envelope landed with the address side up, Vernon bellowed, ‘What is it, Petunia?’

The coincidence made her jump, and she gave a brief squeal.

‘What on earth is the matter?’ Vernon asked, rather petulantly. She heard him begin to ponderously push himself upright, and so didn’t reply. He should see it for himself, so Petunia simply stared in silence at the envelope.

“Mr and Mrs V Dursley, 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey,” the address was written in a small, neat hand which Petunia did not recognise. To her relief, there was only one stamp on the envelope; not only that, the stamp was of the right denomination, and it was correctly placed in the upper right corner of the envelope, exactly where it should be. With a still shaking hand, Petunia reached down and picked up the envelope.

She was still staring at it when her husband finally lumbered into the hall.

‘What…’ Vernon got no further. He saw the envelope in his wife’s hand, and his florid face instantly drained of all colour. He and his wife stared at each other in silence and remembered the many times they had seen similar envelopes. After several seconds, Vernon finally broke the tension-filled silence.

‘It’s been a long time since I’ve seen one of _those_ ,’ said Vernon hoarsely.

‘Yes,’ Petunia agreed.

‘Do you think that we could get away with burning it?’ he asked quietly.

‘We might just get more,’ Petunia reminded him. ‘And they might come _the other way!_ ’

Vernon shuddered.

‘At least this one has been properly addressed,’ she said. ‘It’s even got the correct stamp on it.’

‘Do you think _he_ sent it?’ Vernon asked.

Petunia shrugged. ‘It isn’t Harry’s handwriting,’ she said. ‘Perhaps he’s got a secretary to write letters for him.’

‘Secretary,’ Vernon snorted, and shook his head dismissively. ‘He keeps saying that he’s got a good job, but why should we believe him? I’ve no idea why Dudley bothers to keep in touch with him. We’ll just throw it out, shall we?’

Vernon held out his hand hopefully, but Petunia slipped a finger under the flap of the envelope and broke the seal. Opening it, she pulled out a rectangular card.

‘Mr and Mrs Arthur Weasley would like to invite Vernon and Petunia Dursley to the Wedding of their daughter, Miss Ginevra Molly Weasley, to Mr Harry James Potter.’ Petunia read the invitation aloud, and watched her husband’s face turn purple as she did so. ‘The wedding will take place at The Burrow, Ottery St. Catchpole on Saturday, 24th May, 2003, at 11:00 a.m. Répondez S'il Vous Plaît, to the above address.’

‘What?’ spluttered Vernon. ‘Wedding? Him? To that little ginger girl? Arthur Weasley! I know him, too! He’s the blundering fool who destroyed our living room!’

‘There’s a message on the back, too,’ said Petunia. She said, turning the card over and continuing to read. ‘As you, and your son, are Harry’s only relatives, I do hope that you will be able to attend. Harry has arranged to have any,’ Petunia hesitated and looked worriedly at her husband before continuing. ‘… _Muggle_ post addressed to The Burrow to be intercepted and forwarded to us by the usual methods. You have raised a fine and upstanding nephew, you should be very proud of him. Arthur and I look forward to welcoming you to our home. Yours, Molly Weasley.’

‘Forwarded by the usual methods!’ Vernon tugged angrily at his moustache. ‘Fine! Upstanding! Proud! The woman is mad, just like the rest of them. I’ll just throw it in the bin, shall I?’

Vernon reached for the invitation, but Petunia kept a tight hold of it. Slowly, and very deliberately, she shook her head.

‘You’re right,’ Vernon grumbled. ‘I suppose we should write back, and tell them we can’t go…’ Vernon finally noticed his wife’s expression, and his voice trailed into silence.

‘He’s my sister’s only child, Vernon,’ said Petunia quietly. ‘I’ve… I’ve always regretted not going to Lily’s wedding, and … and we didn’t even invite them to ours.’

‘But, Petunia…’ Vernon began. He was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. Snorting angrily, he snatched it up, bellowed ‘What?’ and then instantly fell silent.

‘Morning, son,’ he began.

‘Yes, we’ve got one, too. Your mother has just opened it.’

‘But, Dudley…’

‘Your girlfriend, too? Preposterous!’

‘Of course it’s preposterous! Do you think that’s a good idea? What if she finds out that he’s a freak, and that he’s marrying into a family of freaks?’

‘I don’t think that we should…’ Vernon sighed. ‘Yes, I think she wants to go.’ He looked pleadingly towards his wife, and shook his head in a desperate last-ditch attempt to make her shake her own. Instead, Petunia nodded.

‘Yes,’ she confirmed loudly, hoping that her son would hear. ‘If Dudley wants to go, then I would like to accept the invitation, too.’ She held out her hand; her husband rolled his eyes, sighed in resignation, and reluctantly handed her the phone.

‘Hi, Mum. Flash looking invitation, isn’t it?’ Dudley asked. ‘Mine says Dudley Dursley and Guest. I know that Daze would love to go; she really likes Harry and Ginny. But, look... If we’re going … well … er … I had a bit of an accident with my suit. I’ll need to get a new one. You’ll be able to persuade Dad to fork out the cash, won’t you? Got to go, I’ll speak to you tonight, okay? We can make plans then. Bye.’

‘Bye, Dudley.’ Petunia barely managed to speak her farewell before she was cut off.’

‘I just hope we don’t regret it,’ Vernon said grimly as Petunia put down the phone. He was as deflated as a helium balloon a month after a party.

* * *

The gates through which Lisa Smith was staring were Victorian, bow topped, and ornate. A fine curtain of rain shrouded the distant walls of the main building, obscuring the intricate details and making it look rather forbidding. As the queue shuffled forwards Lisa returned her gaze to the scrolls and finials of the gates, and to the large arched sign which surmounted the intricate wrought iron. “Macmillan of Lochwinnoch – est. 1375” was all the sign said. No more was needed. Macmillan wool, Macmillan the weavers, Macmillan cloaks and robes, any description was superfluous. Macmillan! The name was enough.

Lisa pulled her company-made cloak tightly around her and again moved towards the smaller door marked “Staff”. Everyone in the queue at the staff entrance wore identical cloaks, and they all had their hoods pulled up to protect them from the light, but incessant, rain. The queue wasn’t long, it never was. But, like everyone else, Lisa was anxious to reach the shelter of the building.

‘Dreich day, hen,’ the gnarled elderly man on the other side of the large gate said to her as she shuffled past his shelter. ‘Och, here’s the wee boss,’ he added, before she could agree with him. He stepped forwards and smartly opened the large gate.

‘Morning McPherson,’ the young man drawled as he bypassed the queue of anonymous workers and entered through the ornate gate. His cloak was identical to the ones worn by his employees.

‘Morning, sir,’ McPherson said. ‘It’s a dreich day, I wuz just saying to the wee lassie.’

‘Yes, certainly,’ said the young man offhandedly. He glanced across, saw Lisa, and—to her surprise—gave her a fleeting smile. His eyes glazed, as if he were deep in thought. Lisa thought that he was about to speak, but McPherson’s attempt to close the main gate forced the young man to move.

‘Head in the clouds,’ McPherson muttered.

‘His mind is on other things. Personally, I think he’s lonely,’ Lisa told the elderly gatekeeper.

McPherson’s response was lost to Lisa, because the woman behind her snapped, ‘Get a move on, lassie.’ Lisa turned, and realised that while she’d been talking, the queue had moved forwards. She hurried through the door, picked up her card, and clocked in.

‘Morning Sharon,’ Lisa said, taking her place in front of her loom.

‘Morning,’ her supervisor said, looking down at her worksheet. ‘It’s houndstooth twill for ye today, Lisa.’

Lisa began to set up the yarn in her shuttle. Once she was satisfied that everything was in its place, she raised her wand and set the shuttle flying. As the shuttle wove its way through the warp threads already stretched across her loom, her mind drifted. Houndstooth, herringbone, gamekeepers, and tartans by the score, it was always the same. There were the minor variations in the warp and weft, but otherwise, the job was simple repetition. Her wand danced through the air, and the weft intertwined with the warp. The pattern slowly appeared, and another length of quality cloth began to take shape.

The good quality Scottish wool she was using to manufacture the cloth had been spun and dyed by others. It was possible that the wool was more than six months old, and that she had been the spinner, but it was unlikely. Now, after learning both spinning and dyeing, she was finally a weaver. Now she made the penultimate product; whole cloth, strong and fine and subtly patterned, and _very_ traditional.

Lisa loved her work, she loved to watch the fine cloth appearing in front of her, but what she really wanted was to make something new and different. Another year or two, she told herself, and then she’d move to London and find herself a tailoring job. Once she’d mastered that skill, then she could finally set herself up on her own.

Her daydreams were interrupted by a sigh of annoyance. Worried, Lisa checked her loom, but she hadn’t made an error, the pattern was good.

‘Whet’s he daein’ noo?’ Sharon asked. Lisa followed the older woman’s gaze and saw the young Macmillan standing on the gantry at the far end of the weaving room. ‘The loon seems tae spend haff his day here.’

Like many of Lisa’s colleagues, Sharon, spoke in a rapid Scots dialect and made no concessions to Lisa’s Englishness. Lisa managed to catch only half of Sharon’s words, so she simply shrugged noncommittally. She watched the man as he watched her and, when their eyes met, she smiled at him. He looked startled and then smiled back. The smile was so brief that Lisa wasn’t even certain that she’d seen it, especially as he immediately turned away from her and left the room.

As she worked, Lisa continued to ponder the event. It seemed to her that the boss’s son had very little to do. He was supposed to be learning the family business, but the top man, “Big Rab” Macmillan wouldn’t let his son talk to the staff, or get involved with the production in any way. As a consequence, the “wee boss” seemed to fill in his days by drifting from building to building, silently watching everyone work. Lisa was convinced that he needed to do what she’d done. He needed to tell his parents that he wasn’t interested in the family business. He should do whatever he wanted, not what was expected of him.

When the first bell went, signalling tea break, Lisa followed the other witches from the weaving hall. The moment she stepped through the door she was approached by the young Macmillan.

‘Good morning, Miss Smith,’ he said, his voice was ponderous and portentous. ‘I wonder; may I speak to you privately for a moment?’

Lisa’s mind went into overdrive as she tried to determine what she’d done to be hauled in front of the management. Her work was good; in the six months she’d been weaving she’d had only one cloth marked down as a second, and that had been in her first week in the job. Had she misjudged him? Had he been annoyed by the fact she’d smiled at him?

‘Oh,’ he said, seeing her expression. ‘You haven’t done anything wrong. It’s, well…’ He sighed and looked around at the other weavers, all of whom were trying to pretend that they weren’t listening. ‘Let’s go to my office,’ he suggested. ‘Follow me.’

He strode off down the corridor; Lisa hesitated for a moment, and then set off after him.

‘Do you like it here?’ he asked, he didn’t even bother to look over his shoulder to see if she was there. ‘You’ve been with us for almost two years, and I’ve heard good reports. Keen, hard-working and ambitious, they say.’

‘Who says?’ she asked curiously. ‘Sir,’ she added, remembering who she was talking too.

‘People,’ he said vaguely. ‘Staff, you know.’ He stopped, and so did she. ‘Marching off ahead, very rude of me, sorry,’ he said apologetically. ‘You shouldn’t be behind me, it’s not right, come along.’ He motioned her to stand at his side. ‘I’ve begun to think that everyone who calls me “sir” is teasing me. You can call me Ernie,’ he told her. ‘If… if I can call you Lisa.’

‘Okay, Ernie,’ she told him, wondering what on earth was going on. Ernie said no more; he appeared to be deep in thought.

They climbed a flight of stairs, and walked along a plush carpeted corridor which was unfamiliar to her. Ernie opened the door to his office motioned for her to go first. She began to move forwards, but he suddenly pushed past her and strode rapidly towards his desk. She was about to protest at his rudeness, but she remembered who she was with, and fell silent. That was when she saw the thing he was trying to hide from her. Her eyes were sharp and, although she had only a fleeting glimpse of the card, she managed to see two of the largest words before he turned the card over. Those words were Wedding, and Weasley, and they were enough.

He looked at her, and at the card he’d just turned over.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Well, I appear to have made something of a hash of things so far. I made a plan, wanted to impress, and changed my mind. But I forgot to hide the card. Stupid of me! Well it’s too late now, you’ve seen it, and now I’ll never know.’

‘It’s true then?’ Lisa said, impressed. ‘You really are a friend of Harry Potter. You really did fight alongside him.’

Ernie Macmillan puffed out his chest, and drew himself up to his full height, although he was not a particularly tall man.

‘Yes, true, all true,’ he said proudly. ‘But I thought that you’d know all about it, after all, you’re a Smith, and a Hufflepuff.’

‘I was fifteen. I couldn’t have stayed, not that I wanted to. I was terrified,’ she told him.

‘Surely Zacharias took care of you…’

‘Zacharias?’ she said dismissively. ‘Those Smiths are distant relatives. He’s my third cousin twice removed or something. I don’t think that I’ve ever even spoken to him. He certainly didn’t acknowledge me at school. We’re the poor relations.’ She looked into Ernie’s face. Something was troubling him. Unsure what it was, she simply pressed on. ‘Half the factory thinks that you made it all up,’ she told him.

‘Made it up?’ he said, his eyes clouded and the corners of his mouth drooped despondently as he lost himself in memories. He shuddered. ‘Why would I make up something like that?’

‘Lots of people claim to have been friends with Harry Potter when they were at school,’ she said. ‘They think it makes them important.’

‘I am important,’ he said. ‘I’m the Macmillan heir. Father says…’

Lisa couldn’t keep the amusement from her face. ‘I stopped listening to my father a long time ago,’ she said.

‘Yes, well, I can’t I must…’ he hesitated. ‘Why are we talking about our fathers? You have work to do, and I... Are you busy tonight?’

‘Tonight? I’m…’ She stared at him and cursed her own stupidity. ‘Are you asking me out?’

‘That was the idea,’ he said abruptly. He was trying to keep his voice flat and emotionless, but he wasn’t quite succeeding. ‘That’s why I asked you here. Didn’t want to do it in front of the staff. Not making a very good job of it, am I? But I haven’t had much practice.’ He looked into her face ‘Thought you’d guessed, after all… Invitation! Should have impressed you. Did, I think.’ Lisa opened her mouth to speak, but he ploughed on with his increasingly nervous-sounding monologue. ‘You look confused, worried. Don’t think that you have to say yes just because I’m the boss’s son. I’m not going to sack you if you say no.’ He allowed himself a wry smile. ‘I couldn’t even if I wanted to. Completely powerless, that’s me. All the same, if you say no, I’d be grateful if you didn’t tell anyone I’d asked. Awkward, you know? Also, I should probably tell you that I wasn’t exactly a close friend of Harry, knew Neville Longbottom much better. But I was in Harry’s year and… Well, you’ve seen the invitation. I wish you hadn’t.’

By the time he’d finished, she was laughing. ‘Just let me say yes, okay? Where are we going?’ she asked.

‘I’ll book us a table at Merlin’s Circle for seven this evening,’ he told her happily. His smile lit up the room for a moment, and then it was replaced with his usual blank, slightly worried look.

‘I’d have said yes even if I hadn’t seen the invitation to the Potter/Weasley wedding,’ she assured him.

He nodded gruffly, but Lisa could see the insecurity in his eyes. ‘I’ll pick you up at seven, at your house,’ he told her, suddenly brusque and business-like as he regained control. ‘I’m afraid that I’ve made you miss your break, sorry. You’d best get back.’

‘You don’t know where I live,’ she said.

‘Your address is on file,’ he said. His response was curt, but the creases in the corners of his eyes were enough to make Lisa believe that he was trying to tease her. ‘You’d best get back to work quickly, Lisa. I can’t even overrule the supervisors; it would be very bad form.’

‘Seven tonight, bye, Ernie,’ she said.

As she dashed down the stairs, Lisa tried to make sense of what had just happened. Merlin’s Circle Restaurant! It was ridiculously expensive. What could she wear?

When she strode back into the weaving hall, everyone was waiting for her.

‘Whet wis tha’ aboot?’ Sharon demanded.

‘Nothing important,’ she lied.


	8. Seventy Days: The Lee Jordan Show

**Seventy Days: The Lee Jordan Show**

Ginny slowly circled her fiancé, carefully scrutinising every aspect of his appearance. She stopped, and picked a minute spec of fluff from his shirt.

‘You’ll do,’ she announced.

‘We’re being interviewed on a wireless show,’ Harry protested.

‘In front of a live audience,’ Ginny reminded him. ‘And the press are here. The Sunday Prophet has sent a photographer, and a reporter, so have Witch Weekly, Cheat, and Quidditch Today. Tomorrow, everyone will be able to see what we’re wearing, Harry. I’m sure that—unless something dreadful happens in the world, and I hope that it doesn’t—tomorrow’s Sunday Prophet will have a front page photograph, and at least a two page spread inside. There will be an “in-depth analysis” of every word we utter, you do know that, don’t you?’ She ignored Harry’s despairing groan. ‘How do I look?’ she asked.

‘Great, as always,’ he assured her. ‘I like the top. It’s very demure, at least from the front.’ He slipped his arms around her, and caressed her bare back.

Ginny grabbed his forearms, and firmly freed herself from his embrace. ‘You aren’t helping, Harry,’ she said resolutely. She turned to the only other person in the room. ‘What do you think, Donna?’ she asked, as a bell tinkled in the background.

Donna—who had not introduced herself, and whose name Ginny knew only because it was written in large letters on a badge pinned to her chest—did not answer immediately. ‘That was the pre-credits bell. Follow me, please,’ she said authoritatively.

‘How do I look, Donna?’ Ginny demanded as she and Harry followed the woman from the green room. ‘I can’t trust Harry. He tells me I look great even when I’m in a baggy tracksuit and covered in mud. I need a second opinion.’

‘Mr Potter is correct,’ Donna assured her. Her voice was cool, calm, and professional, it was the voice of someone used to wireless work, and to soothing nervous guests. ‘You look wonderful, Miss Weasley, you both do. If I had been at all concerned about your appearance, I’d have taken you to the wardrobe department. Try to stay relaxed, Miss Weasley, you too, Mr Potter. If you’ll follow me to the wings, I’ll let you know when to enter the stage.’

‘I don’t know why we agreed to do this,’ Harry muttered.

‘Because the Wizarding Wireless Network is dividing my appearance fees equally between “Help for Law Officers” and “The Quidditch Players Benevolent Fund”, and they’re doubling them because I persuaded you to join me on the show,’ Ginny reminded him. ‘And, besides, there’s nothing to worry about. It’s only Lee.’

‘Lee won’t be a problem. But when we agreed to the interview no one told me about questions from the audience,’ Harry grumbled.

‘Quiet, please,’ Donna whispered.

As they approached the wings Donna stepped in front of them and held out her arm, preventing them from going any further. They watched as Lee Jordan, in a bright yellow open-neck shirt and a Gryffindor-red three-piece suit, strode out from the opposite side of the stage. His audience cheered. Other than his white leather swivel chair, which featured in most of the publicity photographs for his show, and the black guest sofa, which they had been shown on the run-through an hour earlier, the stage was bare.

As the applause died down, Lee spoke. ‘For my final show this season, I have two very special guests. Please give a very warm Lee Jordan Show welcome to the most famous couple in the Wizarding world, the couple whose engagement broke the hearts of witches and wizards everywhere. Welcome, please, my old friends; Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley.’

‘Go!’ Donna whispered the order, dropped her arm and stepped aside. She moved behind them, apparently prepared to push them onto the stage if they didn’t move.

Harry’s hand automatically moved down, and Ginny’s moved up to meet it. The moment their hands met, the young couple relaxed. As they calmly walked onto the stage to rapturous applause, they followed Lee’s lead and waved to the audience.

* * *

‘Welcome, Harry. You look gorgeous, Ginny,’ said Lee as he moved to greet them.

After shaking Harry’s hand and kissing Ginny’s cheek, Lee motioned for them to sit on the sofa. Returning to his swivel chair, Lee sat, and waited for the cheers to subside.

‘I’d like to thank you both for agreeing to this interview,’ Lee began carefully. ‘I know how you value your privacy. It’s an honour, and a privilege, to be allowed to invade it a little.’ He watched his quests carefully. They were hip to hip on the sofa, and they were still holding hands. Harry was looking a little wary but Ginny, who had appeared on the show several times in her capacity as a Harpies and England Quidditch star, was already relaxed.

‘You look happy together,’ Lee said. Harry nodded.

‘Thanks, Lee,’ Ginny said. ‘We are happy, aren’t we, Harry?’

‘Yes,’ Harry agreed, smiling. Lee was thankful that she’d managed to get a verbal response.

‘I have lot of questions, and not much time. Let’s start at the beginning. How did you two first meet?’

‘The first time ever?’ asked Harry.

‘The first time ever,’ said Lee. ‘Was it love at first sight?’

‘I was eleven!’ Harry snorted dismissively. ‘I needed directions to Platform nine-and-three-quarters, and I asked Ginny’s mum. Ginny was with her. So were Ron, the twins, and Percy.’

‘It was the annual Weasley family outing to King’s Cross, but it was the first time Mum had taken me. Poor Harry was a little lost boy,’ Ginny explained. She grinned mischievously. ‘When I first saw him, I knew that I was looking at…’ she paused dramatically. ‘Harry Potter!’ she spoke breathily, her voice full of awe.

‘She wasn’t the only one looking,’ Harry added. ‘But, at the time, I had no idea who Harry Potter was.’

‘He still doesn’t,’ Ginny added as the audience laughed. ‘When the train pulled out, I waved to my brothers, but Harry thought I was waving to him.’

‘That’s probably because I was looking out of the window, and they weren’t,’ Harry replied.

‘So, that was your first meeting, what happened next?’ Lee asked.

‘Harry became friends with my brother, Ron. We got together five years later,’ Ginny said.

‘You got together five years later... Would you like to give me a few more details, Harry?’ Lee asked.

‘No,’ Harry told him.

Ginny chuckled, and Lee rolled his eyes. One word answers were not good radio. Fortunately, this time the audience were laughing, but he knew that it would be a struggle to get Harry to talk about feelings. He knew from his only previous interview that getting Harry to talk about anything was difficult, and getting him to talk about personal stuff was almost impossible. He watched Ginny lean in to Harry and squeeze his hand.

‘Then, could you tell me when you knew Ginny was the one, the girl for you?’ Lee continued.

‘I can do that,’ Ginny offered. ‘He caught me kissing someone else, and he was jealous.’

‘Someone else,’ said Lee, thoughtfully. His audience fell silent. ‘And that would be…’

‘That would be a long time ago,’ said Harry firmly.

‘A long time ago you kissed…’ Lee tried again.

‘It really isn’t important, Lee, I was only fifteen,’ said Ginny, she gave him a wicked grin. ‘It’s no more important than—for example—you asking me to name the men I danced with at my brother, Bill’s wedding.’

‘Do you think Ginny is a good dancer, Lee?’ asked Harry. There was a hint of annoyance behind the teasing question.

The audience laughed as realisation struck.

‘I’m supposed to be the one asking the questions, Harry,’ said Lee. ‘But, yes, Ginny is a good dancer. Perhaps I’ll get another chance to dance with her at your wedding.’

‘Did we invite you?’ Ginny teased. ‘Seriously though, Lee, I think that by the time we finally got together, we had been sparking off each other for a while.’

‘Yeah,’ said Harry thoughtfully, ‘sparking off each other; that’s a good way to put it, Ginny.’

‘And then the flames took hold,’ suggested Ginny.

‘And we’ve been together ever since,’ Harry added, blushing.

‘And now you’re getting married,’ said Lee. ‘So when can we expect the first of the next generation of Potters?’

‘When can we expect… Next generation?’ said Harry, he sounded bewildered. ‘Babies! You’re asking...’ He stopped as the audience laughed and cheered.

‘That is none of your business, Lee,’ Ginny interjected. ‘What I want to know is, how much did my mother pay you to ask that question?’ The audience laughed again.

‘Not enough, obviously,’ said Lee worriedly, getting another laugh.

‘We both have busy careers,’ said Ginny. ‘Harry and I have discussed kids, of course, but when?’ She shrugged. ‘I’m only twenty-one, and I play Quidditch for a living. Don’t hold your breath, folks.’

* * *

Lee glanced up at the studio clock. The interview was, he thought, going well. Harry was now much more relaxed, and the audience seemed to be enjoying the show despite the fact that he’d been unable to get answers to the baby question. The next questions might, Lee knew, prove difficult.

‘We don’t have too long left, so it’s time for me to move on to some of the questions sent in by my audience,’ said Lee, pulling a few cards from his pocket. The audience cheered.

‘First, Stephanie wants to know what activity you most enjoy when you’re together.’

Ginny suppressed a rather dirty-sounding chuckle, but said nothing. Worried, Lee looked desperately at Harry.

‘Quidditch,’ Harry said promptly. His lips twitched slightly, and his eyes were full of mischief. ‘There’s nothing more exhilarating and enjoyable than when Ginny gets her Bludgers out and grabs the Quaffle.’

Ginny snorted with laughter, as did the audience.

‘I have to agree,’ said Ginny when the laughter died down. ‘There’s nothing better, is there Harry? We love to fly together.’

‘Quidditch,’ said Lee carefully. ‘Is that a euphemism?’

‘It’s not any sort of ism, it’s a game, Lee! What on earth do you think we are talking about?’ queried Ginny. She sounded shocked, and it was Harry’s turn to suppress a laugh.

‘So, you both enjoy Quidditch,’ said Lee carefully. ‘Of course you were Gryffindor Seeker, Harry. Did you ever consider a career as a professional?’

‘No,’ Harry said.

Lee shook his head. Every time he thought he might be getting somewhere, Harry gave another monosyllabic answer. He was beginning to think Harry was doing it deliberately.

‘Harry’s doing the job he’s always wanted to do,’ said Ginny. ‘It’s probably just as well he doesn’t play. ‘We’re both competitive. He can’t play for the Harpies, and we would probably fall out if we were on opposite teams.’

‘Ginny would definitely fall out with me if my team won,’ said Harry.

‘Is that true?’ Lee asked.

‘I certainly don’t like to lose,’ said Ginny carefully. ‘But I don’t think I’m a bad loser.’

‘You both like Quidditch,’ Lee continued, sensing a link to the next question on his list. ‘What are your differences? What does Ginny do that annoys you, or drives you crazy, Harry?’

‘She doesn’t think she’s a bad loser, but she is,’ teased Harry.

‘No I’m not,’ Ginny protested, grinning.

‘She’s a bad loser, and she always has to have the last word!’ said Harry.

‘No I do not!’ Ginny protested, to more laughter.

Harry was grinning. He and Ginny leaned together, and each gave the other a congratulatory hug.

‘Harry and I have a very similar sense of humour, Lee,’ she said. ‘We’re winding you up.’ She paused. To be serious, I sometimes think that he works too hard. But my being annoyed because I would like to see more of him doesn’t really count as annoying, does it?’

‘I suppose not,’ said Lee. ‘Let’s try a few more quick-fire questions from my audience. This one is for you, Ginny. What were you most surprised by in the Muggle world? And what do you like best about it?’

‘What surprised me? The sheer size of the place,’ Ginny admitted. ‘When I was small, I often visited the Muggle village near my parents’ house. I thought it was big. I was wrong, it’s tiny! Muggle London is enormous, and it’s easy to get lost in the place. That’s what I like about it. In the Muggle world, Harry and I are simply two young people. We’re not famous, or recognised; we’re ordinary, and that’s great.’

‘Both of you have stressful, high-profile jobs that sometimes keep you apart,’ said Lee. ‘I was going to ask how you cope with that stress, but I think I know the answer, Harry?’

‘Yes, we go into the Muggle world,’ Harry admitted. 

‘Ginny, how would you like to be remembered: provocative, visionary, talented, fun, sexy, cool, inspirational, flawless, or honest?

‘Flawless!’ Ginny laughed. ‘Not flawless! If you ask me...’

‘He just did,’ Harry reminded her.

‘Anyone who wants the word flawless applied to them would be very dangerous to know. They could never be wrong! If I’m remembered at all, I’d like to be remembered as someone who played a pretty good game of Quidditch. That would be enough for me.’

‘Harry, where did you get your motorbike, and how did you figure out how to make it fly?’ Le asked.

‘I inherited it from my godfather, Sirius Black, and he is the one who figured out how to make it fly. All I did was repair it. And Ginny’s dad and brothers helped me.’

‘Ginny, you're an international standard Quidditch player and famous in your own right. What is the one thing—other than have children—you want to do before you die?’

‘You’re determined to ask us about kids, aren’t you?’ said Ginny brusquely. ‘I’m still not going to answer that question. I hope that there will be a lot of years “before I die”! I want to live to a ripe old age, and I want Harry and me to be happy. Anything else is simply the icing on the cake.’

‘Good answer, Ginny,’ said Harry, his appreciation was obvious. ‘I want to be happy; I want us to be happy. In the end, that’s all that really matters, isn’t it?’

Lee waited for the oohs and aahs to die down before continuing. ‘Harry, now that Voldemort is dead, who is your worst enemy?’

Harry didn’t answer; he simply stared thoughtfully into Lee’s face. The audience fell silent. Lee was about to proceed, when Harry finally replied. ‘I have no idea, but I suspect that it may be the person who asked that question.’

‘And, this one is for both of you,’ Lee continued when the laughter subsided. ‘Since Harry grew up with a Muggle family, have you thought about exposing your children to the Muggle world? Where do you want to raise your kids?’

‘How many different ways can you find to ask us about babies, Lee?’ Ginny asked.

Lee deliberately looked down at the question cards in his hand. ‘At least six, I think.’

‘Where? We each have our own homes, but I’m not going to tell anyone where we live,’ Harry said firmly.

Lee silently appealed to Ginny for more, and she obliged.

‘I think Lee’s asking whether we’ll raise our kids—should we decide to have kids—in the Muggle, or the magical, world,’ said Ginny. ‘I don’t think he wants our addresses, Harry.’

Why do we have to choose?’ Harry asked. ‘Ginny and I live in both, why can’t our theoretical kids?’

‘There have been a lot of changes to our Magical World since Voldemort, since Tom Riddle was defeated. What changes are you happiest with and what do you both want to see happen next?’

‘The Ministry still needs to change,’ said Harry seriously. ‘We have rights for house elves and werewolves, but more needs to be done. In fact…’

Lee sensed a rant, but before he could interject, Ginny interrupted her fiancé. ‘We don’t need to talk politics, Harry,’ she said quietly. ‘The next thing I want to see is the Harpies win the European Cup,’ she said. She grabbed Harry’s hand and squeezed it.

‘That would be good, too,’ Harry agreed.

‘Thanks.’ Lee looked apologetically at the couple, and prepared himself for an explosion. ‘Because they form part of the audience, the Wizarding Wireless Network has decided to allow the four members of the press in the front row to ask one question each. Perhaps now would be a good time to bring them in. First, from Witch Weekly, Patricia Popplewell.’

‘Thank you, Lee, but it’s Tricia.’ The woman who stood was elderly and grey haired. She had looked professional until she’d been introduced. As she looked into Harry’s face, she suddenly became nervous. Tricia took a deep breath, looked down at her notes, and nervously spewed forth a rambling question.

‘How do you hope to make time for your marriage in light of your busy lives, and how can you be yourselves in light of the adoration of the many fans of the Ginny the Chaser and Harry the Auror?’ she asked.

‘That sounds like three questions to me,’ said Lee.

Harry looked into the woman’s crestfallen face and took pity on her. ‘Or one rather complicated one,’ he said. ‘We manage to find time to be together now, Tricia,’ he said. ‘I can’t see any reason why that would change.’

‘I can’t, either,’ Ginny agreed. ‘Even with my England training schedule, I get time off, and so does Harry. We share our diaries, and maximise the opportunities we have to be together. And as for “being ourselves” that’s easy. Apart from a few scheduled appearances, like this one, we simply hide from the fans, don’t we, Harry?’

‘Yeah,’ Harry agreed. ‘I don’t mind most fans; they’re like most people, very nice. But I don’t really know why I have fans, and fan clubs.’

‘He really doesn’t,’ Ginny confirmed.

Harry shrugged, and continued, ‘Most fans are nice and polite, although there is the odd one who is a little...’ He paused, and struggled to find a polite word.

‘Odd,’ Ginny suggested. ‘I agree, Harry. I don’t mind sending someone an autographed photo, but don’t ask me, or Harry, for our underwear.’

‘And don’t send us yours, either,’ Harry added. Several audience members groaned, but most laughed.

‘You’re famous, Lee,’ Harry continued. ‘I know you’ve got a fan club. Are your fans ever...’

‘Fanatical,’ Ginny said. ‘That’s where the word comes from.’

‘Not often,’ Lee said. ‘But I admit it can be disturbing when I do! But this isn’t about me! Here’s a question from John O’Ryan, from Quidditch Today.’

‘Harry, there are rumours that you almost died at the Battle, and something brought you back from the brink, what was it? And, Ginny, Harry left you to cope at Hogwarts during the vile regime of the Carrows’ and all the dangers that entailed. Did that make you angry?

‘Blimey,’ said Harry. ‘I, er, I admit I was expecting a Quidditch question. I...’

‘I’ll go first,’ said Ginny, giving her fiancé time to think. ‘Harry went on the run ten days before my _sixteenth_ birthday. I carried the trace, and I’d be carrying it for another year. Of course I was annoyed by the fact that Harry went off without me. But what could I have done? If I’d been with them, we’d have been caught the first time I cast a spell. Besides, on Harry’s seventeenth birthday—the day before he left—Harry and I came to an understanding. I knew that he thought he was doing the right thing and, really, he was doing the only thing he could!’

‘I didn’t want to die,’ said Harry. ‘And, as Ginny said, we’d reached an understanding.’ He grinned broadly as he said those words. ‘As you know, John, I don’t talk about what happened in the Forbidden Forest. All I’ll say is that, for an instant, I hovered between life and death, and I chose life, and Ginny, and my friends. And I don’t regret it.’

It appeared that the reporter was going to ask another question, so Lee hastily cut him off. ‘Next, Treekle Brimstone, from Cheat Magazine.’ He announced.

The woman who stood up to speak was artificially blonde, and barely out of her teens. She was wearing the latest in Muggle fashion. ‘Harry, I've heard you have a hippogriff tattoo on your chest—what colour is it?’ she asked.

‘Pink,’ said Ginny promptly.

‘May we see it?’ the reporter said, sounding startled.

‘No,’ said Harry. ‘No one can, because it’s invisible, too. It’s an invisible pink hippogriff.’

‘It’s invisible, then how do you know it’s there, Ginny?’ Treekle Brimstone asked.

‘Sharp, aren’t you?’ asked Ginny sarcastically.

‘You’ve already managed to squeeze in three questions, Treekle,’ said Lee firmly. ‘I can’t allow more. I don’t want the show to get too syrupy.’

‘But…’

Lee gave a brief hand signal, and the woman was hit by a silencing spell. He turned to the final journalist.

‘So, finally, the Sunday Prophet’s representative,’ said Lee.

Rita Skeeter rose, and looked down her nose at Harry and Ginny. ‘I have no doubt that your most _exclusive_ wedding will pander to the rather lowbrow tastes of your bride’s enormous, wretchedly poor, and decidedly _common_ family,’ Rita Skeeter began. ‘But what I want to know is this, will there be anyone at all sitting on the groom's side?’

‘Yes,’ said Harry. The audience laughed, and Rita looked furious.

Rita opened her mouth, but Ginny cut her off. ‘You’ve asked your question, and you have your answer,’ she told the furious reporter. ‘Lee?’

Lee stared at Rita, silently threatening her with a silencing charm. She flounced down in her seat, a thunderous expression on her face.

‘Rita’s question reminds me of something I wanted to ask you, Harry,’ said Lee. ‘Has Ginny met your Muggle family?’

‘Several times,’ Harry said.

‘And what did you think?’ Lee asked Ginny.

‘All families are different,’ said Ginny diplomatically. ‘I’ve met a lot of Muggles and Muggleborns, and Harry’s family are… well… they aren’t typical.’

‘Thank you,’ said Lee. ‘We have time for only one more question, and the lady who submitted it is sitting in the audience, so she can ask it herself. Would Miss Bethina Tilgarr, from Leicester, please make herself known to me?’

The woman who stood wore a colourful crocheted shawl over rather shabby robes. Her frizzy, dirty blonde hair was tied in unbecoming bunches.

‘Bethina,’ Lee said. ‘I understand that you are the secretary of the _Hufflepuffs for Harry_ fan club.’

Ginny grabbed Harry’s hand, leaned close to him and whispered, ‘So that’s what the madwoman looks like. Try to stay calm.’

‘Would you care to share that comment with the audience, Ginny? Lee asked.

‘Not verbatim,’ said Ginny, with disarming honesty. ‘I’ll simply say that both Harry and I are very much aware, and rather in awe, of the _Hufflepuffs for Harry_ fan club.’

‘Thanks Ginny,’ said Lee. ‘Bethina, what is your question?’

‘Harry!’ The woman breathed the name reverentially, her voice shaking. ‘Ginny has posed for the Harpies calendar several times since joining that club. I was wondering, well...’ 

Her question, when it finally came, was delivered in a rush. ‘I... We... was wondering if there was any chance of the Auror Office doing something similar. A calendar featuring some of the Auror Office’s more prominent officers. Namely yourself? In action? I know that I... that we... that all the ladies at _Hufflepuffs for Harry_ would certainly love the opportunity to, er, examine you in action with your, er, wand.’

It was some time before the laughter died down. Neither Harry nor Ginny responded. Lee felt that he needed to explain the situation to his listeners. ‘Harry has his head in his hands, and he is shaking his head. Ginny is still laughing. Any comments Ginny?’

‘I’d buy one,’ she said promptly. The audience cheered.

‘And, now we’re out of time, sorry folks,’ said Lee. ‘Thank you, Harry. Thank you, Ginny. Remember that the Lee Jordan Show will be back in the autumn, with many more guests from the five corners of the Wizarding world. Have a good summer, and goodnight witches and wizards everywhere.’


End file.
